


Somewhere Else

by birdybirdnerd



Category: The Stanley Parable
Genre: Anxiety, Escape Pod Ending, Existentialism, Homelessness, Homophobic Language, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, not severe but yeah, that comes later but. cmon. yall KNOW stans gonna have ptsd after all this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-08-07 07:17:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdybirdnerd/pseuds/birdybirdnerd
Summary: They're both so, so tired. Tired of the choices, tired of the so-called 'endings', tired of it all.But what else is there to do?...is there?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> okay so i fell hard and fast into this fandom and literally spent the past couple nights going through EVERY SINGLE FIC both on here and ffnet and im disappointed yall. i saw a couple things that, while fantastic!! didnt quite live up to the specific fic i had in mind
> 
> so i guess its time to dust off my keyboard and get to work
> 
> i havent planned everything out just yet, but i wanted to post this short little prologue first in the hopes itll motivate me to finish the rest. its stupid short, but hopefully itll do the job
> 
> happy trails!

Here is how the story goes: 

Stanley wakes up in his office. 

He has the brief thought about how odd it is that he’s been sitting here, over an hour with no instructions coming through his computer, when he remembers. 

The disappearances. The empty offices. The journey. The choices. 

The parable. 

And of course, the Narrator. 

He is always given a moment to himself to remember, to think and sigh and bow his head. Only a moment, before the Narrator begins the cycle anew. 

_ "This is the story of a man named Stanley.” _

What choice will he make this time? Which door to take? Which ending to pursue? So many options, so many burning questions it might just set one's head spinning. 

So Stanley goes, and Stanley chooses, and Stanley wins or dies or goes insane. 

And then it happens again. 

And again. 

And again. 

* * *

But here is how the story ends.

 


	2. Doors Aren't Supposed To Open On Their Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRUMROLL PLEASE
> 
> *badadadadadadadadadadadadaddadadadadada DUMMMM*
> 
> After a long (loooooong) wait, I am finally back! This story is outlined and ready, and I have a buffer of three chapters ahead of this one done and ready for editing, to keep me going even if I fall behind again. I have come to this party prepared, and hoooooo boy, you guys are gonna need some preparation for what's to come >:D
> 
> (I'm uhhhhh actually jumping ahead of my dear editor on this one as it's like. Past midnight and they're asleep but I'm impatient so I went through and edited as best I could. Expect me to jump in at some point in the next week and change things around; nothing major, probably just like. Grammar and stuff)
> 
> ENOUGH TALKING! Let's get this show officially on the road!
> 
> edit: I'm naming these chapters now mostly because I thought of a really funny name for a later chapter but I couldn't just name That One and none of the others so I guess I'm doing this now. If anyone has a better funny idea for this chapter's name hmu I'll give you credit in the notes here

Stanley’s eyes blink open slowly.

He’s seated at his desk, then he’s not.

He’s walking down the hallway, the Narrator’s smooth voice describing every action he takes.

A set of two doors.

The door on the left.

He walks, and walks, and waits, and chooses. He chooses correctly, and is praised, and before he knows it, he’s ‘finding’ the Mind Control Facility.

Like he hasn’t found it before.

Hundreds of times.

He bows his head and walks, ignoring the Narrator’s talking, waiting for him to finish so he can continue. He doesn’t even need to look at where he’s going, the path so ingrained in his head at this point that he could walk it in his sleep. If he could even sleep.

Just another way to torture him, he guesses.

He walks towards the control room, the Narrator’s words washing over him, in one ear and out the other. Before he can finish, Stanley is pressing the ‘OFF’ button, and everything stops.

The door opens.

Stanley walks out.

Freedom, again. The sun on his face. A breeze blowing past him.

He closes his eyes.

And they blink open slowly.

And he’s seated at his desk.

He bows his head, takes a moment, and stands once more.

He walks. The Narrator speaks.

He chooses correctly.

He finds the facility.

He turns it off.

He’s free.

He wakes up.

He walks.

He chooses.

He’s free.

He wakes up.

He walks.

He chooses.

He’s free.

He’s never free, not really.

But he’s ‘free’ and that counts, and he wakes up and walks and chooses and walks and wakes up and is ‘free’ he’s ‘free’ he’s never free but he’s ‘free’ and it all blurs together but maybe it’s his tears but he doesn’t feel it anymore, after all, how could he, he’s _‘free’._

He wakes up.

* * *

“Stanley, I just want to say…”

Stanley was broken out of his mindless walking by the sudden change in script. It almost gave him whiplash with how fast his gaze shot towards the ceiling.

The Narrator cleared his throat, sounding sort of embarrassed. “I just want to say, well, thank you.”

At Stanley’s questioning cock of the head, he continued. “Thank you for following the script, I mean. You’ve been listening to me and following my directions, and it makes me more happy than you can understand.”

He was clearly unused to giving praise like this. He huffed. “I’m not- ugh, what I mean to say is thank you for listening. You’re finally doing what you’re supposed to, following the script, playing the game right instead of going off on your own and messing everything up. It means a lot to me, even if you don’t realize it.”

Stanley frowned. _Thank you for obeying, you mean,_ he thought, but didn’t say as much. Instead, he just shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking again.

“Er, okay then,” the Narrator said, confused. “Well, as I was saying…”

And the game continued.

* * *

Over the next few cycles, the Narrator’s words burned into Stanley’s mind. He stalked down the halls of the office, reaching the Freedom Ending over and over again, still resetting, still not caring and doing it again.

But now he was angry, turning over the words and their meaning in his head. The Narrator was pleased he was listening, doing as he was told, being a _good little protagonist,_ not seeming to care that Stanley hated every minute in this office. He hated the Parable.

All that seemed to matter was that he was listening, that he was playing as he was _meant_ to.

The Narrator continued to direct him through the game, up to the facility and to the false freedom that made Stanley’s heart ache to think about. Over and over again, he stomped his way up countless stairs and slammed the button down to turn everything off. Stanley glared at the sunlight that poured into the facility, and debated turning back and running inside instead of walking out into the open. But each time without fail, he walked out and shielded his eyes as the Narrator talked. Each and every time, he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable reset.

And each and every time, he grew angrier as he woke back up in his office, as if nothing had changed.

The Narrator seemed to catch onto something, at last, and brought it up as Stanley was stomping up the stairs towards the office.

“Are you alright, Stanley?” he asked, Stanley’s heavy footsteps echoed through the stairwell. “You seem… irate.”

Stanley shook his head, refusing to answer.

“Come now, Stanley. Don’t act so childish. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Gritting his teeth, Stanley continued to ascend, ignoring the Narrator’s cajoling.

“Stanley…” the Narrator said in a warning tone. It sounded almost like he was berating a child, and that’s what finally pushed Stanley off the edge.

 _No fucking shit I’m upset!_ Stanley signed furiously, expression poisonous. _I’m trapped here in this hell, with nobody around except you! I’m stuck here, forced to do the same thing day in and day out, with no chance of escape! The only thing I have is this phony fucking ‘Freedom Ending’ you’re so obsessed with, which doesn’t mean anything if I keep ending up back in my office at the end of it! Yeah I’m upset! This game is pointless and I’m nothing but your puppet!_

Stanley was shaking at the end of his rant, hands clenching and unclenching as he fumed. But the Narrator scoffed and seemed to wave off his concerns, which only set Stanley off more.

“The Parable isn’t _pointless_ , Stanley. Of course what you’re doing has meaning!”

_What meaning?! Where is the meaning in all of this?!_

The Narrator laughed. “To finish the game, of course!”

Stanley pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, struggling to keep his temper in check, before signing, _What does it matter if I finish the game, if it just starts over again?_

“Well…” The Narrator trailed off. “It’s never really over, is the thing, Stanley. This is just how it is.”

_Then what’s the point?_

“To play the game, nothing more, nothing less.”

Stanley covered his face, frustrated tears threatening to fall. _And now you see why I hate this place so much._

 _“Harrumph._ Well, you just don’t recognize good design, then.”

Dropping his head, Stanley closed his eyes and started walking again. All the fight was draining out, all the anger he’d been holding onto the past dozen or so resets, was gone. It left a hollowness in its wake that was all too familiar.

“There we go. Good boy, Stanley,” the Narrator’s voice said, dripping with honey as he stepped through the doors into his boss’s office.

With a final spike of anger and defiance fueling him, Stanley spun on his heel and stomped back out the door. The Narrator had already started speaking, following his script, which was why he must not have noticed Stanley’s change of plans.

The door swung shut behind him, and the Narrator’s voice went silent.

Stanley stopped dead in his tracks. This was different. This was new. He waited, frozen, for the voice to berate him again.

But… it didn’t come.

 _Narrator?_ he asked, cocking his head curiously up at the ceiling.

No response.

He tried the office doors, but they were locked, like every door behind him usually was after the Narrator would close them. He pulled on the handle uselessly, but nothing happened. Cupping a hand to his ear and pressing it against the wood, Stanley could hear the muffled sound of the Narrator’s voice, but it seemed so much farther away than it should be, considering it was just a door separating them. He couldn’t make out what he was saying.

_What’s going on…?_

Stanley wandered back over to the staircase, worry creeping up on him. Was everything okay? Did he break the game? The thought passed that maybe he’d finally found a way to cheat the system and escape, but it was passed off as impossible. After all, the only method of escape was through the Freedom Ending door, and that was currently blocked off.

Walking slowly down the stairs, Stanley started thinking about what might be going on. Was this part of the game? Was this a new route, or one he maybe missed somehow? He’d never tried walking back out a door before it closed behind him, did he maybe trap the Narrator in the office somehow? That seemed ludicrous; after all, the Narrator was just a voice from the ceiling. There was no physical way he could be trapped in a specific room in the building.

Stanley was so lost in his thoughts, he almost missed his floor. But he realized just in time, only because he noticed something that had never happened before.

The door he’d come through earlier, which always shut and locked behind him, was open.

He stared at it, dumbfounded, until he found his feet taking him towards it. He touched the door frame carefully, scared it would dissolve under his fingertips, but it held fast.

 _Narrator?_ he tried again. _What’s happening? Are you there?_

When he was again met with silence, he stepped carefully through the door and continued backtracking. Something was going on, and it didn’t feel right.

The broom closet, which had been boarded up long ago, was hanging open as if never touched. The door into the meeting room was open as well, and when Stanley stepped through, the projections that had been displaying on the board were dark.

Dread started creeping up on Stanley. Something was very, very wrong. This was no secret route. He had messed something up.

Was he trapped here now? Was this his punishment for daring to deviate from the script in such a way? All his other deviations had ended well enough (for the most part), and usually ended up with the Narrator sighing and resetting, then them starting back over from the beginning.

But this… This was bad. There was no Narrator, which meant-

Stanley was trapped, in a different way.

He started panicking, running back through the hallways. Every door was open, all the ones he could go through. He ran into the cargo bay, but the Narrator didn’t say anything.

He hated this place, hated the Parable and the offices and all the numerous but meaningless endings. But without the Narrator talking over his shoulder the whole time, he was truly alone.

At least the endings gave him something to do, even if he’d memorized them all ages ago.

At least having the Narrator meant having someone to talk to, if only for short periods of time before the Narrator demanded they keep going.

But now, he was truly alone, and it was _terrifying._

As he ran back through the hallways, backtracking towards the beginning, a halfway-desperate plan began to form in Stanley’s mind.

Maybe if he went back to his office, it would restart the game? Maybe the Narrator was there, waiting for him, so they could start again from the beginning? He started imagining it- making it back to his office and hearing that voice again, berating him for wandering off and throwing the whole game off track, but then things would be back to normal and they’d begin again. Stanley would the thankful he hadn’t done something unfixable, and though he knew he would eventually go back to that place of hatred and agony, at least everything would be back to normal.

He hoped, he hoped, he hoped.

He turned the last corner, prepared to make a straight-shot to his office, and stumbled to a halt.

There was an open door.

The office next to his, Employee 428’s office door, which had never in his countless playthroughs been opened, was now cracked open the tiniest bit.

Stanley swallowed hard.

He looked around behind him, then glanced back up at the ceiling. No response, no warning, no nothing.

Looking back down at the door, Stanley walked through.


	3. Essssss-kapay. I wonder what that means. It’s funny, it’s spelled just like the word escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We be rolling, folks. 
> 
> Side note but I found a mod where they got Kevan Brighting himself to voice a few lines where the escape pod ending actually leads somewhere and I just. Have so many feelings about it and also this stupid game.

Stanley stepped into the dark, unfamiliar room, and looked around. He jumped as the door swung shut behind him, seemingly with a mind of its own. He tried the handle only to find it was locked. That was… odd, considering the Narrator wasn’t around at the moment.

Turning back, Stanley took a few steps forward into the dim light, blinking as his eyes adjusted.

YOU ARE NOW LEAVING.

He stared at the sign on the wall. What did it mean, leaving?

Spotting an elevator through a door on his right, he continued forward, looking around in confusion. He touched the outer door of the elevator, pressed the button on the side, but nothing happened. It seemed to be out of order. He tried digging his fingers into the crack between the doors, attempting to pry them apart, but to no avail.

As he rubbed sensation back into his fingers, Stanley glanced to his side, and something caught his eye. Another sign, with an arrow pointing to a staircase.

ESCAPE POD BAY, FLOOR 760.

Stanley’s eyes widened. _Escape pod? Could it be…?_

He dashed over to the staircase. He was on floor 754.

Throwing himself through the doorway, he almost tripped in his haste to run up the stairs. Whirling around the corner, he found himself staring at the giant mural depicting the floor number, 755. He looked to his other side; a dark office. Another corner showed him the elevator. A closed door. More stairs.

He ran as fast as he could, legs pumping, something like a cautious hope thrumming in his chest and spurring him onwards and upwards and closer and closer and-

Chest heaving and muscles aching, Stanley finally reached the top floor.

He stared.

ESCAPE POD LAUNCH BAY.

Stanley slowly approached the mural, hand reaching out towards the flaking paint without him meaning to. He traced his fingers over the aged wall. The thought crossed his mind that there were words scratched off at the bottom, something that looked almost like a message, but they were unintelligible. Stanley ignored them.

There was a room off to his right, a room that seemed to lead into pitch-blackness. Stanley’s feet moved towards it of their own accord.

He walked through the darkness for what seemed like an eternity, before a pinpoint of light appeared in the distance. He squinted, trying to see what it was, but it wasn't until he'd gotten closer that he could make out the interior of some sort of… thing.

It was red, a little taller than him. Light emanated from inside, spilling out into the darkened hallway. It was nothing he’d ever seen before, yet somehow, some part of Stanley knew.

It was freedom.

He reached out, breath caught in his throat.

_Was this it…?_

The world went black.

* * *

Stanley snapped awake at his desk.

“This is the story of a man named Stanley.”

He looked around. He was back in his office. His computer was on, cursor blinking, no commands. His door was open. The offices outside were empty. The Narrator was speaking.

What happened?

“Stanley, that's your cue,” the Narrator said impatiently, startling him out of his thoughts.

 _Narrator, what just happened?_ he asked, standing up from his desk and peeking out the door. Everything seemed to be reset. But-

“Were you not paying attention, Stanley? Your co-workers are gone. Go look for them.”

 _No, I know about that,_ Stanley signed. _What about the escape pod?_

“What escape pod?”

Stanley stopped, confused. _The escape pod I was just reaching for?_

“Stanley… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Narrator said slowly. “There is no escape pod here. The only way to escape is to shut off the Mind Control Facility, you know that. We’ve done it before.”

_But-_

The Narrator cut him off. “Stanley, just play the game. There is no escape pod.”

Brow creased in confusion, Stanley walked through his office door, mind racing. He glanced to his left.

The door to the mysterious stairwell was shut. He tried the handle, but it was firmly locked. Putting more weight into it, he twisted and turned the handle, seeing if he could maybe force it open.

But to no avail.

“Stanley went around touching every little thing in the office, but it didn’t make a single difference, nor did it advance the story in any way,” the Narrator said, trying to passive-aggressively urge him into continuing on. But Stanley wasn’t swayed; he needed to get back to the escape pod. Maybe there was a timer or something? Maybe he wasn’t fast enough?

“Stanley, that door doesn’t go anywhere.”

 _It does, I saw it!_ Stanley exclaimed. He banged his fist on the door, before stepping back and glaring at it. He debated trying to kick it down.

“Oh, you mean that so-called ‘escape pod’?” the Narrator asked irritably. “Stanley, don’t be ridiculous. There’s no escape pod behind that door- I would know, I designed the game!”

Stanley crossed his arms and huffed. He started walking through the office, towards the open door.

“Oh thank God,” the Narrator sighed. “Back to business.”

He continued to tell the story, but Stanley wasn’t listening. He was plotting.

* * *

Over the next few resets, Stanley tried a multitude of ways to get the door open again.

He tried kicking it down with varying levels of force. Throwing chairs at it didn’t seem to help any, and only made the Narrator chastise him for making a mess of things.

He then tried picking the lock. He’d scavenged some pens from his old co-worker’s desks awhile ago, and used to use them to draw to pass the time. Now he dug them back up and jammed them in the lock, wiggling them this way and that to try and open it.

It probably would’ve helped if he’d known how to pick locks in the first place. Needless to say, that attempt didn’t get him anywhere.

He would have searched the rest of the offices for something to break the door down with, but every time he left that room, the Narrator closed the doors behind him and refused to open them again. Stanley figured there might be some power tools or something in the warehouse, but he had no way of bringing it back with him if the Narrator was being stubborn.

While searching around for something that might be of use, Stanley ended up triggering the route for the Confusion Ending. Perking up at the maintenance elevator, he stepped inside and pressed the button. Maybe there would be something down there he could use?

One thing led to another, and Stanley found himself following the Adventure Line ™ through the corridors as the Narrator droned on about how exciting this all was. He was looking down, watching his feet and idly swinging a crowbar he’d dug out of a box in an earlier hallway, when they emerged in the first office again.

Face lighting up with a grin, Stanley leapt for the closed door before the Narrator had even finished talking.

“Stanley, what are you-”

Stanley wedged the crowbar into the seam between the door and frame, dug his feet into the carpet, and heaved. His heels slid, almost making him lose his balance, but he readjusted and pulled again.

There was the faint crackling sound of splintering wood, but that only lasted a second before the crowbar slipped out of the doorway and Stanley went tumbling to the ground. The crowbar hit the floor with a solid _thunk,_ just barely missing his foot.

He clenched his fists, digging nails into the palms of his hands to rein in his temper before he broke something. He was _so close_ , if only he could get that stupid door open!

“Stanley!” the Narrator chided. “What in the world has gotten into you?”

Shooting a glare at the ceiling, Stanley pointed at the door.

The Narrator tutted, as if scolding a child. “Now, Stanley. Use your words.”

_Asshole._

_“Not those words!”_

Taking malicious delight in the fact that he could at least rile the Narrator up to entertain himself, Stanley got to his feet and dusted himself off. He inspected the door. The crowbar had barely scraped off the paint.

_Back to square one._

* * *

It took time, and _many_ resets, but Stanley finally figured out the key to opening the door.

Right when he was about to give up, he turned on his heel and left his boss’s office, deciding he wanted to mess with the Insane Ending instead. He started as the door slammed shut, cutting off the Narrator’s voice.

He only had a moment of being confused before it hit him. _This_ was what he did last time! Flying down the stairwell, he silently cheered as he saw the open door waiting for him. In no time at all, he was rushing through the offices, back towards the beginning and the escape pod.

If it truly was timed, he didn’t want to waste a moment wondering, lest he miss his opportunity again.

He skid to a halt and pumped his fist as he saw the open door waiting for him, leading into the darkness. _Score one for Stanley!_

Cracking his neck with a grin of determination, he walked through and began ascending the metal stairs, bypassing the elevator he knew was broken and pushing himself to reach the top as quick as possible. His legs burned, moreso after his mad dash through the building, but the excitement running through his veins made it barely noticeable. A huge smile stretched across his face.

He was almost there.

As soon as he reached the top, he wasted no time dallying and ran for the escape pod. It came into view out of the black, it’s bright light shining like a beacon in the darkness of the Parable. Stanley was already imagining what it would be like to be finally free, back in his old life, with his old friends and family and job and-

He reached for the opening to the pod, and the world went black again.


	4. In Which The Narrator Suddenly Doesn't Have Ears, Sorry, What Were You Saying Stanley?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a McFuckin Roll lads
> 
> Also, testing something out. Gonna be posting every Wednesday and Saturday while I have a bunch of chapters built up, but if I start to dwindle on them and get busy, it'll drop to every Saturday. Let's see if this holds up lmao

Stanley felt like crying. Every time, every _single_ time he managed to reach the escape pod, no matter what he did, it always slipped from his grasp. He tried everything, but this fragile hope at truly escaping seemed to be falling through his fingers like everything else.

He discovered, after going back to the escape pod room again and again, that there was no timer. It didn’t matter how long he took in going there, after ‘locking’ the Narrator in his boss’s office. He could wait around for hours before ambling back to the beginning or run like his life depended on it, nothing made a difference. No, it only reset once he actually got there, fingers reaching for the metal, not even making contact before everything fades and he wakes up in his office, the Narrator starting the game again like nothing had happened.

It was taunting him, with how close to freedom he was. Snatching it from his grasp, he felt like the universe was laughing at him. _Here, give Stanley a bit of hope. A bit more... Now, take it away! Hahahaha! Watch him run around like an idiot, wasting his energy and getting his hopes up for nothing! Watch him go!_

It was cruel, and Stanley found himself truly losing hope that there was any escape from this nightmare.

He sat curled up against the cold stone wall at the top of the staircase, idly scratching at the chipping paint on the wall. He’d been there awhile, this particular time. Just whiling away the hours, lost in his thoughts. No matter what he’d tried, the escape pod was always just out of reach. Why even try at this point?

He thumped the side of his head against the wall, blinking slowly, eyes heavy with a different kind of exhaustion. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out, feeling himself deflate like an old balloon.  

His eyes focused on something on the wall. He squinted. Had there always been words there?

He shifted, sitting up properly, and peered closely at the mural. There were definitely words painted there, but they were near unintelligible, flaking and old. He couldn’t make most of them out, just something about a warning.

_Entering the escape pod will… cannot be disabled… both the Narrator and… for escape._

Did… did the Narrator need to be here for it to work?

Stanley studied the faded words until his eyes started to sting with the strain, but couldn’t make much else out. _That must be it, then._ he thought. _I need him with me for it to work._

But how to get the Narrator to listen? Every time Stanley had tried to bring up the existence of the escape pod, the Narrator had laughed it off and urged him to just continue with the game, _stop being ridiculous, Stanley, there is no escape pod. I would know, I made the game._ He clearly didn’t believe it was real, but the more Stanley tried to convince him, the more irritated he got.

Now that Stanley thought about it, was there even a way for the Narrator to physically join him? He’d never _seen_ the Narrator in person; he was just an omnipresent voice in the office as far as Stanley knew. But, he’d somehow managed to get ‘trapped’ in Stanley’s boss’s office multiple times now. How did that work, exactly, if he was just a voice?

Stanley could feel a headache coming on.

He stood up, his spine protesting from sitting for so long against the hard floor. Cracking his back, he walked the distance toward the escape pod.

He stared at it. It looked so innocent, sitting there. As if he could reach out and touch it.

Fuck this.

He reached out, letting the inevitable blackness overtake him.

* * *

_Narrator, we need to talk._

“Hm?” Stanley seemed to startle him out of his thoughts. “What about?”

Stanley had been sitting in the employee lounge for some time, long after the Narrator’s snide comments about the room had tapered off. He sorted through his thoughts, trying to put together a cohesive argument on why the Narrator should listen and go with him, but he was running out of ideas. The voice from the ceiling was a stubborn one.

 _I want out of here,_ Stanley began signing, slowly. He wanted to get this right the first time, to leave no room for argument. _You know that. And before you say anything about the Freedom Ending, you and I both know that that ending doesn’t lead anywhere but to another reset._

The Narrator huffed. “Now, Stanley, we’ve talked about this-”

 _No, let me finish,_ Stanley interrupted.

Groaning, the Narrator went blissfully silent. Stanley grinned. _Step one, shut him up: complete._

_Narrator, this game we play can’t go on forever. I don’t know how you haven’t yet, but soon, you’ll get tired of it too. I already have- have been, for awhile. I’ve exhausted every route, memorized every line in your script and I’ve walked this office so many times I know how many pens there are in the whole building. That’s a bit ridiculous._

“Yes, quite,” the Narrator grumbled.

Shooting a glare at the ceiling for him to keep quiet, Stanley continued. _What I’m saying is, I know a way for us to escape, to get out there and experience something_ _new_ _. There’s a whole world-_

“Stanley, are you talking about that blasted escape pod again?” the Narrator exclaimed. “I told you, no such thing exists, otherwise I’d know about it! I know every inch of this building inside and out- I created it! I coded it with my own two hands! There is. No. Escape pod!”

Gritting his teeth, Stanley tried to get a word in. _Narrator, listen! There is! I know this office too, and I’m telling you, there is!_

But the Narrator was having none of it. “Ugh, I’ll have to reset the whole thing again, won’t I? I should’ve seen this coming when you stopped in here and sat, twiddling your thumbs even after I told you to get off your rear and move. That’s what I get for entertaining your request to chat off-script.”

 _Narrator, please!_ Stanley pleaded, hands flying as he tried to get his message across before the game inevitably reset. _There’s a whole world out there, waiting for us to explore it and learn about it, new experiences we can have and things to do that aren’t walking in the same circles day in and day out! If you’d just listen-_

“Goodbye, Stanley,” the Narrator interrupted, voice low and dangerous, setting Stanley’s teeth on edge. “Let’s try this again.”

* * *

Stanley wouldn’t give up. Every time the game was reset, he would do something or another, trying to piece together a valid argument in his head, before stopping and getting the Narrator’s attention. He would argue his point, the Narrator would sigh, and Stanley would wake back up in his office at the beginning.

He even went so far as to follow the game all the way to the ‘true’ ending, before bringing it up again. The Narrator was narrating the end as the giant door slowly slid down, talking about how after all this, Stanley was finally _free,_ and in the middle of it Stanley interrupted him to bring up the escape pod again.

The Narrator was so angry he cut himself off, shouting “Oh, bugger it all!” and reset the game in the middle of the final cutscene.

* * *

Stanley wanted to throw something. Many somethings. He had proof- near indisputable proof that there was a way out of this hell, but the Narrator refused to even listen through his proposal. They’d argued so many times about it, Stanley just wanted a break before he combusted.

He found his feet following the familiar path through the right door, off the lift and onto the catwalk. He ignored the Narrator’s sputtering about interrupting him in the middle of his monologue, and walked straight for the red door as soon as he found it.

Stanley closed his eyes, drowning out the sound of the Narrator, just letting himself wander into the ‘happy room’, as they’d taken to calling it.

The soothing sounds helped ease his nerves, even if he knew he couldn’t stay here forever. Without even bothering to glance up at the light show, Stanley dropped to his knees and collapsed in the middle of the platform, pillowing his head on his crossed arms and sighing. The idea flit through his head of throwing himself off the nearby catwalk a few times; maybe that would demonstrate his displeasure at the whole situation to the Narrator.

But… later. He wanted to rest first.

He kept his eyes shut and stayed in that position for what felt like hours, letting the tuneless melody wash over him and drown out his thoughts. If he could have slept there, he would have. Unfortunately, sleep was not a thing in… whatever crazed universe the Parable existed in.

“Stanley, I…” the Narrator said after a while, startling Stanley out of his daze.

There was a long silence, broken by an irritated huff, as if the Narrator didn’t like what he wanted to say.

“I’m… sorry,” he finally admitted, making Stanley push himself onto his elbows. “For how hard I’ve been on you the past few cycles.”

He hummed, starting a sentence a few times before finally settling on what he wanted to say next. “I want- well, I don’t know. I want to believe you.”

Stanley cocked his head. He sat up properly, crossing his legs and staring off into the void as he listened.

“About, well, the escape pod,” the Narrator continued. “I want to… help you, with that. I just-” He groaned irritably, words that usually seemed to come so easily to him stopping in his throat before he could say them.

“I’m scared, Stanley.”

Stanley’s heart stuttered at the emotion in the deceptively quiet confession. “I’m scared, of what’s out there. I don’t _know_ what’s out there.”

The Narrator continued, rushing through his words almost as if he didn’t want Stanley to catch onto their meaning. “Here, I control everything. I am the creator of the Parable, I am it’s god. But out there, I don’t know anything. I don’t know what’s out there, or how it works- hell, Stanley, I don’t know if I’ll be able to _exist_ out there! If what I am is compatible with the outside world’s laws of physics!

“I’m scared, Stanley, so I ignored you and pretended the escape pod didn’t exist. I believe you; I haven’t seen it myself, but you’re so sure of it that it must be real. I didn’t make it, it doesn’t make sense, but nothing in this blasted world makes any sense so why wouldn’t there be an escape pod?”

The Narrator giggled dementedly, voice ratcheting up an octave. “Stanley, I want to go with you, I really do. But what would become of me after you’re gone? You’ll go and find your old life, or some new one, and where will that leave me? A lone Narrator, no story to tell, in a world not his own, with nothing to fall back on! I’ll be alone! I don’t- I don’t _want_ that, Stanley, don’t you see? I’m _scared!_ ”

He was working himself into hysterics at this point, which was exactly what Stanley did _not_ want. Stanley shot to his feet and waved his hands around, trying to get the Narrator’s attention.

 _You won’t be alone!_ he said. _I’ll be there! I don’t know what’s gonna happen either! I’ve been here so long, I don’t know if my old life is still there, but even if it was, I wouldn’t just abandon you like that!_

“You… wouldn’t?”

The soft hope in his voice was almost palpable. Stanley smiled gently. _No, I won’t leave you. At least, not until you’re ready. I’m definitely not._

 _I’ve been here… so long,_ he said, gaze falling to his feet. He scuffed the metal floor with the toe of his shoe. _I know going back is gonna have an adjustment period. And despite how much you irritate me, I can’t… I can’t just. Leave you. Right off the bat like that._

_You’re stuck with me for awhile, just like I’m stuck with you. This time, though, it’s our choice._

There was a long silence, where Stanley was afraid he might’ve said something wrong. But at long last, the Narrator spoke up, his voice quiet, but determined.

“Alright.”

_What?_

“We’ll do it,” the Narrator said. “We can do this. We _will_ do this.”

Stanley felt weightless, hope almost lifting him up.

The smile in the Narrator’s voice matched his own.

“We’ll escape the Parable.”


	5. Achievement Unlocked: Go Outside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdkfhasd This is the chapter title I mentioned, the one I went back and decided to name EVERY chapter just so I could make this joke. If I was smart I'd say that the working title for the fic was this, but I'm not, so I'll just admit that I thought of it after the fact and wanted to smack myself for the missed opportunity. 
> 
> Also I know I said I'd be posting on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but tomorrow is gonna be SUPER busy, as I'm moving into my first apartment!! So I decided to go ahead and post this one now, so y'all don't worry and I don't have to stress abt finding a few minutes to edit and post. 
> 
> Anyways. 
> 
> See you Wednesday!

Stanley waited for… well, he couldn’t quite tell how long. Time passed so weirdly here, and there was no way to measure it. He seemed to be doing a lot of waiting around lately, though this time, there was a reason.

He was waiting for the Narrator to come down.

Rather, that’s how he’d phrased it. ‘Down’ from where exactly? He hadn’t said. But he told Stanley to wait, and he would be there soon.

So Stanley waited.

He’d started by standing in front of Employee 428’s closed office door, but his feet started to hurt, so he’d sat down against the opposite wall. The door looked so innocent, as if it wasn’t hiding the literal escape from this ever-repeating hell just behind it. And up some stairs. _Lots_ of stairs.

There was a faint sound to his right, making Stanley’s head whip around. A moment ago, there was nobody there. But now, there was.

He couldn’t focus exactly on the figure, only being able to tell that it was human-shaped. Looking too closely, a massive headache started to pierce through his skull. Stanley winced, closing his eyes, but struggling to open them again to figure out who it was.

“Oh, sorry,” came the Narrator’s voice- but not from above, from _directly in front of him_. “Let me fix that.”

When Stanley looked back up, the figure’s shape was shifting into something he could comprehend. The edges crisped, features solidified, and his headache slowly went away.

In a few moments, Stanley was looking at the Narrator.

He was around average height, stocky, and would have looked rather ordinary and plain, were it not for a few key things. For one, his skin was unnaturally grey, veins standing out in sharp black contrast and seeming almost circuit-like in appearance. His hair was slicked back and silver, but the light shining off of it made it seem almost like it was _actual_ silver. He was dressed all in monochrome, charcoal slacks and matching vest over a crisp white shirt, black tie and shoes completing the look. In fact, the only color on his entire person were his glasses.

They shone with a bright blue light, aimed directly at Stanley.

“What do you think?” he asked, adjusting his tie and spreading his arms wide. “Picked the outfit myself, for our debut in the new world. You think they’ll like it?”

Stanley stood wordlessly, walking over to the Narrator. Now that he was on his feet, he realized he stood just a couple inches taller than the other man.

The light behind the Narrator’s glasses dimmed just the slightest bit as he waited on an answer. “Well?”

Stanley fidgeted, hands playing with the end of his own tie. _You look… almost human._

Face literally lighting up in a grin - his glasses flashed _green? -_ , the Narrator chuckled. “‘Almost’ isn’t quite what I was going for, but I guess that’s the best I can do. Oh, sorry again about earlier- my usual form isn’t meant for human perception. Had to tone it down a bit. My apologies.”

 _Don’t… worry about it,_ Stanley said, still feeling thrown for a loop. The Narrator always seemed like such an overbearing presence, everywhere at once, that seeing him in a human-like shape like this was sort of off-putting.

Stanley was _taller_ than him.

“...Is there something on my face?” the Narrator asked, cocking his head playfully.

_What?_

“You’re staring, dear boy.” Chuckling, the Narrator turned to the door and shook his head. “Humans. Fascinated by the smallest things.”

Clapping his hands, he shot a grin at Stanley, though it looked forced. “Shall we do this?”

Stanley nodded, mentally shaking himself. Time to focus. _Usually, the door only opens after I’ve managed to trap you upstairs. I don’t know how to open it another way._

The Narrator rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm… Let me try something.”

There was a pause, then the light behind his glasses flashed an angry red. “Er, not that. Maybe…?” There was another flash of red, and two more followed by a sigh. “Hmm. Figured that wouldn’t work, but there’s no harm in trying. There’s only one thing I can think of that might make it open, based on what you said worked for you, but I’m not… sure I should do it.”

 _What is it?_ Stanley asked, stepping closer to get a look at the door.

Crossing his arms, the Narrator frowned. “Maybe, if I cut off my control from the office, everything will return to what I call its ‘base state’.” At Stanley’s confused look, he continued.

“Whenever I am not directly in or controlling a set of rooms or an area, they are essentially deactivated. Doors are open without me closing them, lights are off, so on and so forth. If I sever my connection with the office, it should all deactivate. I’ll basically be turning the game off.”

Stanley could see something was up. _What’s wrong with that?_

The Narrator’s shoulders raised a fraction, and he looked away. “I’ve never done it willingly, and on such a large scale. I’m afraid… Well, I’m afraid I won’t be able to take back control if I give it up so thoroughly to do this.”

Stanley could see the Narrator’s anxieties creeping up on him. He couldn’t have him freezing up, not after they’d come this far. He stepped over and put a hand on his shoulder.

The Narrator looked up. Stanley tried not to focus on how unnaturally warm the Narrator felt under his thin shirt.

 _You’ll be fine. We can do this._ Stanley gave him a reassuring smile and squeezed his shoulder.

The other man flushed a dark purple, before pulling himself away. “Yes, of course we will. Why wouldn’t we? We’re Stanley and the Narrator, we can do anything!” He chuckled nervously, very much _not_ looking in Stanley’s direction as he continued to chatter. “Let’s get this door open, I’m eager to see what the outside world looks like. Are there books? Computers? Oh, I hope there’s no pesky Adventure Line™, that would put a damper on the whole thing.”

Stanley was still reeling from the warmth that had colored his own cheeks at the look the Narrator had given him, but he shook his head to clear it and nodded. _Let’s do this._

The Narrator grinned widely, before taking a deep breath. He stood still a moment, to the point where Stanley could have mistaken him for a statue, before there was a near inaudible _click._

That click, though quiet, echoed unnaturally through the room, and was followed by the whine of something powering down. He looked around as the lights flickered off one by one, the computer monitors that were still on following with a staticky buzz. His office door, which had closed behind him when he left it earlier, opened again. The door swung open only a little, before it knocked into something and stopped.

Employee 428’s door had popped open as well.

It led into darkness, as it always did. Stanley wasn’t swayed by the now-familiar sight, but when he looked over to see the Narrator’s reaction- that was a different story.

The Narrator looked stricken. He clutched at his chest, rumpling his tie and the collar of his shirt in the process. He looked almost like he was in pain, eyes locked on the now-open door, before it passed and he let out a breath. The screens covering his eyes flickered and powered out, just like the rest of the office, and Stanley saw the Narrator’s eyes for the first time.

They were a pale silver-grey, like his skin, but shot through with multicolored circuits that pulsed with light. The Narrator looked up at him and they flashed. Stanley realized he was staring again.

“Well, that’s done.” The Narrator straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat, and smiled tightly. “It feels rather odd, I must say, to disconnect myself from the Parable like this.” He waved a hand, laughing. “Ah, I’ll get used to it. Come now, Stanley. Adventure awaits us!”

He stepped towards the now-open door, but hesitated until Stanley walked up next to him. Nodding to himself, the Narrator went through, Stanley following close behind.

* * *

They walked for awhile through the darkness, until the familiar light from the escape pod appeared in the distance. Stanley heard the Narrator gasp from beside him, and he felt himself reaching out a hand to squeeze the Narrator’s. It felt weird, skin-to-skin contact with another person after so long, and Stanley didn’t realize he was still holding the Narrator’s hand until they stepped into the circle of light and he saw the other man glance down.

Stanley forced himself to let go and cleared his throat, gesturing at the open door. _After you?_ He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

The Narrator swallowed imperceptibly. He seemed frozen, staring at the opening as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. What was right in front of him.

Something unfamiliar. Something new.

Stanley realized he wasn’t going to make the first move, so he steeled himself and reached out for the escape pod.

Hesitating with his hand barely an inch over the metal, he closed his eyes and reached forward.

His fingers brushed against warm metal. Stanley opened his eyes. He’d touched the escape pod, and everything had remained. The game didn’t reset.

A grin bloomed on his face as he turned eagerly to face the Narrator. _Come on, let’s go!_ he signed.

The Narrator still looked unsure, eyes flashing a myriad of colors, before he set his mouth in a thin line. “Alright.” He still didn’t sound certain, but Stanley couldn’t let him chicken out. He grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him inside.

The inside of the escape pod was mostly bare, save for the bright lights that ran up the length of the red walls. There didn’t seem to be a control panel of any kind, and Stanley spared barely a thought on how they were supposed to get it started.

The door slid shut with a hiss behind the Narrator, startling him into spinning around and pressing his hands to the door. “Wait-”

The lights shut off, plunging them into darkness. A low hum started from all around them. Stanley felt his heart jump into his throat as he felt the floor beneath his feet start to vibrate, barely, then growing stronger as the humming grew louder.

The Narrator’s breathing ratcheted up a notch, hands scrabbling at the closed door to no avail. “Wait, no nonono wait,” he stammered, starting to panic. “I’m not ready, I can’t do this, please let me out no no _no-_ ”

His breath hitched as Stanley reached out blindly, trying to calm him down somehow. He found the Narrator’s shoulders and pulled him close, staving off his own panic to try and calm the Narrator down. The shorter man clenched Stanley’s shirt tightly, and Stanley couldn’t tell if it was him shaking or the room. Probably both.

The lights on the walls started lighting back up, the glow starting near the floor and shooting towards the ceiling, faster and faster as the rumbling grew louder and louder. Stanley felt the shaking of the escape pod grow to a painful crescendo, before there was a deafening explosion.

Stanley shut his eyes, clutching the screaming Narrator to his chest, as the world stretched like a rubber band and _snapped_.

* * *

His ears were ringing as he came back to himself. Stanley uncurled from his position on the floor of the escape pod, back and neck and hands and everything aching. He felt like he’d been strung through a taffy-puller, his very molecules like jello. He cracked each of his fingers, before reaching forward in the darkness to find the Narrator’s face.

The Narrator had been curled up against him, and was now doing a similar stretch-and-assess. “Stanley… what happened?” he asked, voice soft and scratchy. He coughed. “Ugh, my throat. I must have shouted myself hoarse. How embarrassing.”

If Stanley could see, he would have guessed the Narrator was blushing. He deigned not to comment.

Hands tracing down the Narrator’s shoulders in the dark, Stanley found one of his hands and fingerspelled into his palm. _Think we’re here. Find door._

They stood, fumbling awkwardly around each other in the darkness. Stanley ran his hands over the walls, finding the raised sections where the lights were, and eventually managed to find and dig his fingers into the seam on the door. He pulled, expecting resistance, and almost fell when it opened easily. He backed away, shielding his eyes from the sudden light that poured into the tiny space.

“Oh, Stanley…” the Narrator whispered, voice reverent.

Stanley opened his eyes, and saw the sun.

He smiled.


	6. A Horse is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got looooong, holy shit.
> 
> And they're only going to get longer >:3c

The sunlight felt so unbelievably warm on Stanley’s cheeks as he stepped out of the escape pod. He looked around, taking in the trees and bushes and clouds and all the life, life that looked and felt _real_ , unlike the false ‘freedom’ he’d experienced countless times back in the Parable.

He fell to his knees in the soft grass and buried his hands in a clover patch. They felt so _soft,_ delicate leaves and blossoms breaking under his fingers and staining them green. He pulled up a handful of grass, letting it fall to the ground, and repeated the motion, feeling the slightly damp dirt under his knees. It was all so beautiful, Stanley felt his heart fill fit to burst.

“Stanley,” the Narrator said quietly.

He was staring out as well, tears slipping down his cheeks. He didn’t seem to realize he was crying until he opened his mouth to speak and couldn’t find his voice. He covered his mouth, eyes widening in a cocktail of emotions. Fear, horror, hope; above all, _awe._

Stanley reached out, releasing the handful of grass, and tugged the Narrator onto the ground next to him. _It’s alright,_ he signed, guiding the Narrator to feel the grass as well. _It’s real. It’s all real._

“I don’t-” He stopped, swallowing hard. “It’s all… there’s so much,” he whispered. His breath was coming out in short little gasps, as if he was struggling to do so, to stave off panic. Stanley knew that feeling all too well, so he shifted, pressing against the Narrator’s side to help calm him down. Only then was he able to get a better look at the other man.

He looked _human._

Gone was the grey skin and metallic hair. He was still pale, an almost sickly grey, and his hair was still a shade of silver, but it looked more natural now than inhuman. Instead of being slicked back, it fell in locks around his face, catching on glasses that looked much more like regular glasses than glorified screens. Despite the grey hair, he didn’t look all that old- at a glance, Stanley would have guessed in his mid-thirties.

He looked up at Stanley, panic abating somewhat and making way for something like wonder. His eyes were a shining blue.

“Stanley, I…”

Whatever he was going to say was lost as he trailed off, caught up in the expression he saw on Stanley’s face. But instead of telling him off for staring again, the Narrator was just as much a loss for words.

The moment was broken by a hissing sound from behind them. They scrambled to their feet as the ground rumbled, backing away from the escape pod. Something was wrong. Stanley’s heart started racing.

_Ssssssstanley…_

An unnatural voice hissed across the clearing, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. It sent a chill down Stanley’s spine, which only intensified with the following scene.

One moment, the pod was there- door hanging open, grass around its base disturbed after its abnormal landing.

They blinked.

It was gone.

A breeze blew past the two of them, colder than the somewhat cool air around them, raising goosebumps along Stanley’s arms. He felt like someone was watching them, but when he looked around, they were definitely alone. The feeling passed after a moment, and Stanley gave himself a moment to breathe.

There was a hand at his arm. “Stanley, what do we do now?” the Narrator asked, voice smaller than Stanley was used to hearing from the usually so self-confident man. He sounded scared, though he looked like he was trying to hide it. His voice always betrayed him, though.

Stanley shook off the lingering strange feeling and looked around. They were in a field of tall grass, a forest of some kind at their back. Ahead of them, the grass stretched on for what seemed like miles. Some sort of large grazing creatures milled about in the distance, though whether they were cows or horses or something else, Stanley wouldn’t be able to tell unless they got closer.

He squinted, shielding his eyes against the sun. Near the horizon, he could see some tall buildings poking up over the treeline. A city of some sort, he guessed.

He pointed it out to the Narrator. _We have to find the city. We won’t survive out here for long. We need to find other people._  

At the mention of ‘other people’, the Narrator’s brows furrowed. “That’s right, isn’t it? There will be other humans out there. I hadn’t thought of that.” He looked perturbed at the thought.

Stanley closed his eyes and sighed. _Come on,_ he said. _Let’s start walking._ It looked to be about mid-day; if they started now and didn’t stop, they would be able to make it to the city outskirts by nightfall. Then they’d need to find shelter, and maybe Stanley could figure out where they were, and just possibly, figure out a way to his own home.

If it was still there.

* * *

They walked for a few hours across the fields, the Narrator sticking close to Stanley’s side. He didn’t seem too comfortable in such an open area, which made sense- he’d lived in a cramped office building his whole life, or so Stanley guessed. He was feeling a bit uncomfortable out there himself, but he kept it together for the both of them. The sooner they found the city, the sooner they’d be inside again.

It turned out the animals they’d seen were horses, who were very confused and a little skittish at the sight of two strange humans out in their field. Most of them stayed away, which was good for the equally-uneasy Narrator.

But one younger mare seemed to take a liking to them as they walked, and even got so bold as to walk up to the Narrator and nose his shoulder.

He hadn’t been paying attention and almost jumped out of his skin, clinging to Stanley like a scared child. “Stanley, what is that?!” he cried out. “Get this beast away from me!”

The mare didn’t seem deterred, and continued to butt him with her snout, almost as if she wanted something. The Narrator whimpered as she lipped at his vest pockets, large teeth only inches from his throat. He almost knocked Stanley over with how hard he was backing up against him, trying to get away.

Stanley wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but he knew it wasn’t much of a laughing matter. Horses were scary if you didn’t know how to handle them.

He’d never personally interacted with a horse before, but from what he remembered from his blurry past life, so long as you didn’t show fear they wouldn’t harm you. He reached out past the Narrator and stroked her neck experimentally.

She looked up, deciding the Narrator wasn’t worth her time, and whinnied. The Narrator jerked in surprise at the loud sound so close to his face, and cowered back into Stanley again.

 _It’s not that bad,_ Stanley signed, before reaching out to pet the horse again. _She’s friendly, see?_

He moved away from the Narrator and stroked along the length of the mare’s neck, tangling his fingers in her mane and smoothing it out. She was a beautiful dark brown color, dappled white along her legs and belly, with a deep black mane and tail. She flicked her ears happily as Stanley continued to pet her, front hoof stomping into the ground and kicking up a clump of grass.

The Narrator, still undeterred, moved to stand behind Stanley so she couldn’t see him. “Well, yes, you have fun with that,” he said, clearing his throat to try and regain his dignity. “Tell me when you’re finished so we can continue trying to _get the hell out of here._ ”

Stanley shook his head fondly and reached out to scratch behind one of the horse’s ears. He debated trying to get up on her back and ride her into town; that would definitely be faster. And he’d always wanted to ride a horse.

The only problem was that he didn’t know how well-trained she was, and getting the Narrator onto her back as well just wouldn’t be happening. He sighed, tossing the idea before it was even fully formed.

Patting her neck one last time, Stanley reached behind him to get the Narrator’s attention. _Come on, let’s go._

“Finally,” the Narrator grumbled, still keeping a wary eye on the horse as they started walking again.

* * *

She followed them for awhile, keeping them company as they trekked across the vast field and over a few hills. Eventually, the Narrator calmed down and stopped tensing up every time she bumped against one of them. He still wouldn’t pet her, but at least he wasn’t wound up like a spring anymore.

She finally wandered off as they reached a fence, seeming to realize that this was as far as she could go. She nudged Stanley with her nose one last time, making a soft noise, and turned to trot back the way they’d came. Stanley smiled after her, and felt his grin widen as he noticed the Narrator watching her run off as well.

The Narrator looked up at him and glared. “Well? Are we just going to stop here?”

Stanley deigned not to acknowledge the wistful look in his eye as he turned back to the wooden fence. He crouched, dirt scuffing the knees of his slacks as he wriggled through the largest gap in the wooden logs at the bottom.

Feeling himself finally push through, he turned over on his elbows and sent the Narrator a thumbs up, before standing and trying uselessly to dust himself off. Those grass stains weren’t coming out. He sighed and gave it up as a lost cause.

“You expect me to just-” the Narrator started, frowning. He huffed. “The indecency…” he grumbled, before dropping to his knees and crawling forward. He complained about his clothes the whole time, until he found himself stuck with one leg through the opening and the rest of his lower half wedged tight.

“Stanley, could you, er...” he said quietly, cheeks red.

Crouching again, Stanley lowered himself face to face with the Narrator and smiled innocently. _Yes?_

The Narrator shot him a glare. “Help me, you daft boy!”

Rolling his eyes, Stanley rose again and grabbed the underside of one of the wooden logs. He dug his feet into the ground and heaved upwards, raising the heavy log a few inches. Just long enough for the Narrator to get through.

It took a moment, but he finally yanked himself free and fell to the ground. “Yes, I’ve decided,” the Narrator said, turning onto his back and glaring up at the sky. He crossed his arms, the perfect picture of petulance. “I hate this world. Can we go back?”

Stanley stood over the Narrator and planted his hands on his hips.

Groaning, the Narrator sat up. “Shame. I’m telling you, we had it good there! No dirt or grass to stain your clothes, no strange animals stalking you like the creeps they are. Truly a life worth living.”

 _Quit acting like a baby and let’s go,_ Stanley said, eager to get to the city.

The Narrator pouted, but got up and followed without comment.

* * *

As Stanley predicted, the sun was dipping towards the horizon by the time they made it to the outer edges of the city. It was a small city, only a handful of skyscrapers visible off a ways, surrounded by the dilapidated industrial park they found themselves in. Stanley could see a more urban area with places they might find useful off a ways, so he directed them towards it.

Their shoes crunched on the cracking pavement as they wandered down a random street, not sure what exactly they were looking for. There weren’t many people in this part of town out at this hour, what with work having been completed for the day. The occasional car passed them, bathing the pair in washed-out headlights. 

The Narrator was looking around at the run-down buildings, gaze drawn a different direction every time a streetlight flicked on. “Where are we going?”he finally asked as they clambered over an old railroad track, crossing to a different street that looked more promising.

Stanley hesitated. He wanted to find his apartment, see if his family was looking for him, but whenever he tried to remember what part of town it was in, his memory went fuzzy. He tried to focus on what the building looked like, but all he could see was every other plain apartment building in every other city in the world.

He shook his head, deciding to sort through that later, and surveyed their surroundings as well. _We need to find somewhere to stay for the night. I would suggest a hotel, but we don’t have any money._ There were plenty of abandoned warehouses around, but he worried about how cold it would get. And if they'd be discovered in the morning, which would be equally as bad if the police got involved. 

The Narrator hummed thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. Sleep. I forgot, that’s a thing now. Are you sure we need to?” he asked. “Can’t we just keep looking? How often does a human need to sleep anyways?”

Stanley kept walking. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he _was_ starting to feel tired. It was a foreign feeling after being in the Parable so long, where rest just wasn’t a thing. He was at almost as much of a loss as the Narrator was.

They continued walking as the last rays of sunlight finally disappeared, plunging the city into a cool twilight. The temperature dropped steadily now that the sun was gone from above them. Soon, they were shivering, their thin clothes not nearly enough protection from the cold.

Stanley didn’t recognize any of this. The buildings they passed as they advanced farther into civilization - small shops and convenience stores and restaurants and bars, everything dingy and not very well taken care of - were all so unfamiliar, so unknown. The only explanation Stanley could think of was that this wasn't his city. But that meant there was a whole world they had to look through to find them, to find his home.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of chattering teeth. Stanley looked behind him, to where the Narrator had started to lag behind, shivering. _You okay?_

“I’m j-just, cold, Stanley,” the Narrator snapped. He seemed irritated at his body’s involuntary reaction to the temperature drop.

Stanley realized he was getting uncomfortably cold, too. They needed to find somewhere to sleep soon, somewhere out of the elements.

 _Come on,_ he signed, grabbing the Narrator by his elbow and tugging him close. He made a beeline for an older building nearby. It looked like a church, abandoned for either the night or awhile, he couldn’t tell. But it was shelter, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

They pushed the heavy door closed behind them, shutting them off from the wind. Almost immediately, the temperature raised a few degrees, and Stanley let out a sigh of relief.

He rubbed his hands together to try and warm them as he stepped further into the church, looking around. Now that they were actually inside, it was obvious that the place was abandoned, and had been for a number of years. A few of the higher stained glass windows were cracked but not broken, the cushions on the stone pews were rotted through, and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

The Narrator sneezed from behind him, and Stanley chuckled. _Let’s find somewhere to crash for the night,_ he said. _We can explore some more in the morning, see if there’s anything here we can use. Maybe some food, or money._

“If that’s what you think we need, I’m all for it,” the Narrator said, yawning. “So far, Stanley, I must admit: I’m not a huge fan of this whole ‘tired’ thing you humans do. Is there a way to turn it off?”

_Sleep._

“Ugh.”

They wandered through the service area, up towards the front. The altar was bare, save for a few tarnished candelabras and an empty stone bowl. There had once been an elaborate tapestry hung up behind it, but it had been eaten through by moths long ago and the colors were faded and grey.

It took some effort, but Stanley managed to force the door to the inner sanctum open. The rusted hinges made an awful creaking sound that echoed through the empty chamber and made them flinch, but it opened nonetheless.

The inside looked like it had been cleared out long ago, only a collection of wooden furniture covered in old white sheets left. There was a door to a hallway, and another, smaller door towards the back that seemed to lead into a darker room that Stanley wandered into.

Stanley didn’t know much about churches, and the Narrator doubtless knew much more, but he would have hazarded a guess at this room being a sort of sleeping chamber for a priest or someone similar. Did priests sleep at the church? Maybe it was on the off-chance they had to stay at the church overnight. Either way, there was an old bed and side table, and piles upon piles of moth-eaten sheets the only other thing around.

 _Looks like we’re staying here for the night._ Stanley started sorting through the sheets, looking for some that were in better condition than the others. There weren’t many. He sighed. This was going to be an interesting night.

“I guess it’s as good a place as any,” the Narrator grumbled, walking over to plop down on the bed. He opened his mouth to continue complaining, but a loud _CRACK_ interrupted him and it turned into a yelp as the bottom of the bed gave way.

After the dust settled, Stanley saw the Narrator folded awkwardly into the new hole in the bed frame. He looked perturbed, mostly confused, and the situation was just ridiculous enough that Stanley broke into silent giggles.

“Are you done?” the Narrator huffed after a moment. He tried pulling himself up, but he was wedged in. “Are you quite done?”

Wiping away his tears, Stanley grasped both of the Narrator’s hands and heaved, pulling him up and out of the broken bed. The Narrator stumbled to his feet, yanking his hands away and dusting himself off with an irritated expression on his face.

“Yes, yes, laugh it up dear boy,” he sighed. “I feel there will be a lot of awkwardness as I get used to actually _living_ in this body. At least you won’t be in want for free entertainment.”

Shaking his head fondly, Stanley went about gathering as many blankets and old sheets that he could and piling them in a corner of the room. Thankfully the floor was carpeted; that would help negate some of the cold in the room, as well as being much more comfortable than stone or wood or some other hard flooring.

“What are you doing?” the Narrator asked, peeking over Stanley’s shoulder as he crouched on the ground, arranging the blankets.

He sat back on his heels after a moment to sign. _I’m making us a pallet._

“But… don’t humans sleep on beds?”

Stanley shot him a deadpan look, then looked at the broken bed.

“Ah. Of course.”

Soon enough, Stanley deemed it as comfortable as it was going to get. He toed off his muddy shoes and crawled onto the pile, under a few of the least-damaged sheets, and curled up with his knees against his chest to conserve body heat. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it would have to do for then.

After a few moments of nothing, Stanley turned over to look at the Narrator. He pushed himself up on an his elbows. _Are you coming?_

The Narrator was watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. “I’ll… join you in a bit,” he said. “I’m not tired.”

Stanley raised an eyebrow, but the Narrator was already sitting down against the bed frame, looking at the opposite wall. He looked thoughtful, and not entirely in a good way. Stanley sighed and laid back down. He’d fall asleep eventually; the man couldn’t ignore his body’s needs forever.

After a few minutes, the stress of the day finally caught up with him, and Stanley slipped off to sleep.

* * *

The Narrator listened to Stanley breathe for several minutes, even after he’d drifted off. He looked back over, watching the line of his shoulders rise and fall.  

So many thoughts had been racing through his mind all day, giving him a headache to rival no other. But now, everything was blissfully quiet.

The Narrator let out a breath, and pulled his knees up to his chest, crossing his arms over them. Every movement in this new body felt weird. He used to know exactly what every part of him was doing at any given moment, and be able to extend his influence to any part of the offices in which they resided. But now, everything was different.

This wasn’t his body.

This wasn’t his world.

He didn’t know what to do.

He looked back at Stanley, who’d shifted in his sleep, settling into a more comfortable position on his back. He looked so peaceful like this, the Narrator noticed. Happier, almost. Like there was finally something worth forging forward for.

He closed his eyes, tipping his head back against the bed frame.

For the first time in his immeasurably long life, the Narrator waited for the sun to rise.


	7. That's Right, Food Costs Money. Huh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really think finding food would take an entire chapter but look where we are, folks. 
> 
> My original estimate at the length of this story was somewhere around 23 chapters, but the more I write for the longer that estimate gets. Currently I'm looking around 25 to 27 chapters, but don't hold me to that lmao
> 
> See you Wednesday!

Stanley came to the next morning slowly, bones aching from a long night sleeping on the hard floor. There was only so much a pile of thin sheets could do, apparently, and his body protested roughly at the treatment. They needed to find a real bed soon.  

He stretched out his legs and tried to sit up, only to discover that there was a heavy, warm something pressed tight against his side. He turned his head with some difficulty, trying to see over the head of fluffy silver hair blocking his view.

Silver hair.

The Narrator.

Stanley felt himself flush as he realized that the Narrator was curled up into his side, face buried in his shoulder. His glasses were smushed into his face, pressing lines against his skin. Stanley shifted, trying to roll over and out of the other man’s grasp, but the Narrator moved as well. He untucked his arms from between them and wound them around Stanley’s middle, pulling him close again.

“...” Stanley felt horribly awkward at the whole situation, but the Narrator was as out of it as ever. He was almost afraid to try and extricate himself, lest the Narrator wake up and make everything weird.

But, as Stanley settled back into the sheets and the Narrator snuggled back into his side, he realized the Narrator was sort of… cute like this.

Stanley made a face at that thought. Okay, not cute. Definitely not. But more manageable, he would admit. It was easier to deal with the guy when he wasn’t narrating every little thing you did, or, more recently, whining about every little human thing he didn’t like. Stanley was relearning some of this stuff too, and _he_ wasn’t making a fuss. He mentally pat himself on the back for being so well-adjusted.

Then he realized he’d subconsciously wrapped his arm around the Narrator’s shoulders to make the position more comfortable, and huffed. _Alright, time for this to stop_.

He forcefully rolled over, disentangling himself from the embrace, and stood up. By the time he’d slowly straightened up and stretched the kinks out of literally every part of his body, the Narrator was sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“Stanley, why does everything hurt?” he complained, yawning. “I thought sleep was supposed to make you humans feel better, not worse. This feels worse.”

And they were back to normal.

 _People aren’t meant to sleep on the floor is why,_ Stanley said, twisting around and stretching, rolling his shoulders. He studiously did not look in the Narrator’s direction, positive he would somehow read Stanley’s expression and know they’d basically been cuddling not a few minutes ago.

The Narrator didn’t seem to notice, though. He kicked the blankets off and groaned as he stood up. “Cracking noises, not liking the cracking noises,” he hissed, hands on his hips as he tried to pop something in his back that wouldn’t pop. “Are humans supposed to be this crunchy? I thought that was suited to more inert things, like granola. Or gravel.”

Stanley shook his head - he really was doing a lot of that lately - and trudged over to the doorway. He wanted to explore this abandoned church, see if there was anything useful here. Maybe a space heater, or some clean clothes.

The Narrator’s stomach grumbled, followed by a disgusted wordless exclamation.

Or some food.

 _Let’s go find something to eat,_ Stanley said, motioning toward the door. He was pretty hungry too. He just hadn’t realized it until then; everything had been happening at once yesterday, and he hadn’t eaten at all.

He hadn’t eaten in… a while, that he could remember. He never got hungry while in the Parable. When was the last time he’d eaten?

“Oh, at least this is one thing I was looking forward to,” the Narrator said with a sudden mood change. He walked beside Stanley as they wandered through the pews. “I’ve heard such wonderful things about human food- the good stuff, of course. Filet mignon, lemon pepper fish, all the delicacies you people come up with! It’s incredible, really. Oh, and wine, ah!” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and smiling. “I wonder what it tastes like, all of it. There’s so much variety, and apparently things taste different if you pair them together in different iterations. Stanley, I do believe I’m genuinely excited for this experience!”

Stanley hated to rain on his parade, but he had to be told the hard truth. _Unfortunately, that stuff requires money,_ he said, shoulders slumping. _And we don’t have any._

The smile dropped off the Narrator’s face. “Oh. Well, how do you plan on getting us some food, then?”

He was almost irritated that the Narrator expected him to do all the work, but he realized that he knew more about this world than the Narrator, so he just shrugged. _We’ll think of something, I guess._  

Before heading out into the city again, Stanley made them explore deeper into the church, in case there was anything they could use left over from the last inhabitants. It had obviously been abandoned awhile, but he thought that maybe there was some canned food stashed away they could eat.

Unfortunately, anything that might have been left had been pilfered long ago. There was a bare-bones kitchen, but the pantry was empty and there was no power anywhere in the building. He’d figured that would be the case, but Stanley would have beaten himself up if they’d given it up as a lost cause without at least trying.

They explored a little more, but found nothing save a few more rolled-up blankets that they added to their pile. Stanley’s stomach was gnawing on itself in hunger at this point, and the Narrator was looking more and more distressed each time his made a noise.

“Stanley, we need to make this stop. I don’t like it.” He was clutching his middle, shoulders curved inwards as if that would help any. Stanley would have called it a melodramatic reaction, but if he was right, this was the first time the Narrator had experienced something as uncomfortable as hunger, so he gave him a pass.

Stanley frowned, biting his lip and trying to think of something. _Alright. Let’s go out, we’ll find something out there._

 _Hopefully_ , he didn’t add.

* * *

In the light of day, the city was more alive than it was when they’d initially arrived. In the light of day, it became clear that fall was approaching, with holiday-themed decorations in every window, on every streetlight. It was warmer with the sun out, so much so that Stanley didn't worry about either of them getting cold, but it was clear that the warmth only lasted as long as the sunlight did. 

It was still early morning, so people were just waking up, but there was a fair enough crowd wandering the sidewalks that the Narrator stuck close to Stanley’s side. He watched them go about their lives, heading to work, getting breakfast, talking with neighbors, all with his mouth clamped shut and eyes narrowed in contemplation. Stanley wanted to ask what he was thinking, but the rumbling in his stomach was a more pressing matter.

The pair walked for about half an hour down street after street, passing from the smaller urban areas to a major street. Here, there were more people about; some on bikes or driving, countless others simply walking like the two of them. They passed a strip of restaurants and Stanley’s mouth started watering at the smell drifting out.

“Stanley, I want to go there.” The Narrator was tugging at his sleeve, gazing wistfully at a little Italian place that seemed homey. Stanley could smell pasta, warm bread, all sorts of things that were so far out of their reach. “Please? There. I want to eat there.”

Instead, Stanley pulled him away, continuing down the street. _No money._ _Focus._ It hurt him as much as it hurt the Narrator, but they wouldn't get anything done thirsting over things they couldn't have. 

Cresting a hill, Stanley looked down the road they’d been following. It continued straight on for a few miles, filled with stores and boutiques and car shops and local law offices. Basically, nothing that would help them at the moment. He put his hands on his hips and turned, surveying the other two streets that intersected here. Nothing popped out at him, and he sighed in frustration.

He hated the idea that they might have to steal something to eat, but that seemed to be their only option at the moment. Though, now that he thought about it, scavenging and stealing would only last them so long. Maybe if he could find a food bank or something they'd be better off for a bit, but without knowledge of the city, that would take some searching.

Brow creasing, Stanley decided that they’d have to make do for now. Looking around again, Stanley caught the arm of a random passerby.

 _Do you know where the nearest grocery store is?_ he asked.

The man raised an eyebrow at him. “You tryna play charades with me, boy?”

Stanley was confused a moment, before it hit him. He probably didn’t understand sign. He looked to the Narrator for help.

“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong, Stanley?”

_He doesn’t understand me. I need your help._

Now it was the Narrator’s turn to be confused. “Well that’s odd. I didn’t think you were that hard to read. I mean, sometimes you do things that don’t make sense and frankly, I never really understand why you do the things you do, but-”

 _No,_ Stanley interrupted, swiping a hand through the air to cut him off. _I mean he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. I need you to translate for me._

“Are you two done?” the man asked impatiently. “I got places to be, ya know, so if you wanna continue your little game somewhere else…”

“Now, sir, that’s entirely unnecessary,” the Narrator said, crossing his arms. “Not to mention _rude_. We just have a simple question, so if you can’t-”

The man scoffed and walked off without another word, leaving the Narrator with his mouth hanging open. “The _audacity-_ what, I was in the middle of saying something!”

 _Narrator, calm down,_ Stanley said, putting a hand on his shoulder. _We’ll try again with someone else. Come on._

* * *

After finding someone willing to listen and give them directions, the two found themselves standing outside a small deli. There was a bigger store a few blocks down, but by now it was midday, and this place was conveniently closer. They could worry about a more sustainable source of food later, when the Narrator was done moaning that he was two steps from death.

Stanley watched the door for a few minutes in silence, thoughts racing. The Narrator started to ask why they couldn’t just go in and _get_ something, but Stanley shushed him and continued to think. They needed to not get caught. This required a solid plan.

After a few minutes of thinking, Stanley snapped his fingers and went to dig through a nearby trash can.

“Er, Stanley? What are you doing?” the Narrator asked, peeking over his shoulder and wrinkling his nose. “Surely you aren’t giving up on the deli and thinking of eating from _there,_ are you?”

Stanley ignored him and continued digging, until he emerged with what he was looking for. He presented it to the Narrator: a paper bag, with the logo and name of the deli stamped on it.

The Narrator looked at it, then back up at Stanley. He raised an eyebrow.

Rolling his eyes, Stanley went back over to the door and motioned for the Narrator to follow. _Keep an eye out for me,_ he signed, tucking the bag under his arm both to free up his hands and to partially hide it from view. _Signal me when nobody’s looking._

They stepped inside, and were immediately hit with a wave of warm, delicious smelling air. Fresh bread, cooked meats, all sort of yummy things were spread out on tables and displays. Stanley actually thought he heard the Narrator whine, but when he looked over, the other man was studiously looking away. He smirked.

Stanley guided them around the smallish store, hand on his chin and pretending to browse through what they had. In reality, he was watching the door and the register, keeping an eye on the crowd level and where the employees were at all times. There was only one visible employee in the front - a bored-looking teenage girl manning the till - though he could see flashes of people working in the back as they wandered around.

 _Narrator, loosen up,_ Stanley said after a few minutes. _You look suspicious. Act like you belong here._

The Narrator was standing stiffly, only following when Stanley pulled him along, looking straight ahead and ignoring everyone around them. At Stanley’s instructions, he seemed to force his shoulders to untense, letting out the breath he’d been holding and unclenching his fists. “Act like I belong, act like I belong,” he said under his breath. He bit his lip. “But I _don’t_ belong, Stanley. What do I do?”

Picking up a pre-packaged meal and inspecting it before setting it back down, Stanley responded, _Look around at the food. Find something you like. Something with some meat and a couple sides, it’ll fill you up for longer._

Nodding to himself, the Narrator started picking through the options as well. He frowned at a few of them before huffing. “None of these sound appetizing, Stanley. Does it have to be something here?”

_Quit being picky and make a choice, or I’ll make it for you._

Rolling his eyes, the Narrator grabbed another box and hummed. “I guess pastrami on rye will do. It has a small tin of potato salad with it, so there’s a side for you. And these weird little… pickles? Are those pickles?”

 _Oh, sweet gherkins! I think you’ll like those._ Stanley looked through some more and picked an egg salad sandwich for himself, with some apple slices and carrots.

 _Alright, now put it back,_ Stanley said, setting his own down and continuing to browse. _Let me know when there’s a lot of people in the store, but no one’s looking our way._

It took a few minutes, but he eventually felt the Narrator’s elbow press into his own in a way that felt too deliberate to be an accident. Nodding to himself, Stanley slid the bag out from under his arm and grabbed the food they’d chosen, dropping the plastic containers inside and folding the top over. Making sure to keep his stance relaxed, he wound his arm with the Narrator’s and led him back towards the door, stopping occasionally to look at another display and admire some pastries. The Narrator wisely kept his mouth shut, and followed Stanley’s lead in looking around.

Before they knew it, they were out of the deli with no one the wiser, and Stanley felt like clapping. He kept his expression neutral, though, and led them down the street until they turned a corner.

Jumping away from the Narrator, a grin stretched across his face. _We did it!_

The Narrator’s eyes were already on the bag. “Give. I’ve waited long enough, we did your little game, now I’m hungry.”

Stanley huffed his quiet laugh and tugged the Narrator over to a nearby bench, before plopping down and pulling their food out of the bag. He handed the Narrator his and opened his own, digging in without a second thought.

They ate in silence, the Narrator almost choking initially before Stanley chastised him and instructed him to breathe between bites. He slowed down reluctantly, but finished his sandwich off in a matter of seconds and started on the potato salad.

Stanley was still on the last bites of his sandwich when the Narrator reached the pickles. Before he could scarf them down as well, Stanley managed to reach over and snatch one from the box.

“Excuse you.”

Stanley stuck his tongue out and stuffed the tiny vegetable in his mouth, grinning innocently. Glaring, the Narrator went to steal one of his apple slices. This started a minor tussle that lasted all of a moment, ending with Stanley dumping the rest of his food into the empty space in the Narrator’s box and them sharing.

They were still picking at the last few veggies when the Narrator spoke up again.

“Thank you,” he started quietly, eyes cast downwards, “for being patient with me. It’s frustrating, Stanley, being in an unfamiliar body in an equally unfamiliar world, and having to rely on someone to help me around. Doubtlessly you’re lost too, but for the first time - and I hate to admit this so _don’t tell anyone_ \- you know more than me. You have more knowledge of how this world works than I do, so I’m going to have to continue to rely on you for the foreseeable future.”

He made a face. “Neither of us are going to like this, but that’s how it is for now.”

Stanley looked at the ground as well, thinking. The Narrator’s words were concise and factual, but he seemed much more distressed about the situation than he let on. Stanley didn’t like the situation either, but he agreed- there wasn’t much they could do at the moment. They weren’t in a good place, and until Stanley could look into his old family and old job, things weren’t going to change.

Hopefully it wouldn’t be that way for long. Hopefully they’d find something soon.

All he had to hold onto was that hope, and Stanley _hoped_ it held on long enough.


	8. hey whats up im narrator im [AGE REDACTED] and i never fuckin learned how to read

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, hate to say it but scheduling is gonna have to be reduced to once a week for a bit. I'm almost done moving all my stuff to the new place, but once I'm done and all that then I can get back into the swing of things with regular writing. It'll probably only be like. One week like this since lease ends for the old place in a week but who knows lmao

After they’d finished their food and properly disposed of the empty containers (Stanley folded the bag up and shoved it in his pocket- they might need to pull that con again soon), they wandered through the streets for a bit, trying to figure out what to do next.

Stanley knew they needed to find a lead on his family, to get them off the streets and maybe into some clean clothes. The mud caked on their clothes from their journey to the city was starting to draw a little unwanted attention, so Stanley dragged the two of them to a gas station to clean up in the bathroom. Wet paper towels only fixed so much, but they had to do whatever they could to blend in for the time being.

So, looking a little damp but significantly cleaner, they set out to look for something familiar.

Since Stanley didn’t recognize any of the city, he concluded that they weren’t in _his_ city. He decided to look through some maps of the area; if he could figure out where they were, he could figure out where they needed to go. With that in mind, he and the Narrator asked around for directions to the nearest library.

Half an hour of walking later found them sitting at a table in a quiet, out of the way corner of the public library, a dozen or so maps spread out in front of them.

“I don’t see how this will-” the Narrator started, voice carrying and drawing a few heads.

 _Shhh!_ Stanley waved his hands, then put a finger to his lips. _It’s a library. Be quiet._

Rolling his eyes, the Narrator crossed his arms and sat back in the chair. “I don’t see how this will help any,” he said again, this time in a more manageable whisper. “At least, I don’t see how _I_ can help. I am entirely unfamiliar with the area and wouldn’t recognize your hometown if I was staring directly at it.”

 _Just help me look,_ Stanley asked anyway. _If you see the name, point it out. I’ll be looking in the surrounding areas. Hopefully it’s nearby, so we won’t have to go far._  

“Alright then.” The Narrator sat forward again, pushing up his glasses and pulling a map close. “What name should I be looking for?”

Stanley raised his hand to fingerspell it, but stopped.

“Stanley?”

He didn’t react.

“Stanley, are you okay?” the Narrator asked, seeing something in his expression that made him concerned. “What’s the name of your city?”

Stanley didn’t… he didn’t _know._ He closed his eyes, struggling to dreg up those few vague memories he still had of his previous life, his life before the Parable. But even as he reached for them, he felt them slipping from his grasp, leaving him with only images of buildings and a smiling woman’s face.

The name, the _name_ , why couldn’t he remember his home’s name? It was just on the tip of his tongue, why was it so hard to just say a name? Why couldn’t he remember his _wife’s_ name? He felt horrified as he searched his memory for a name, any name he could remember. He’d spent so long holding onto the hope of seeing it all again that he hadn’t stopped to realize he didn’t know any specifics, any names that would help him _find them-_

A pair of hands gripped his shoulders. “Stanley, you need to calm down.”

He was hyperventilating. He opened his eyes, panicked headache blooming as he tried to remember names that weren’t there, a life that wasn’t there anymore. But as his heart rate shot through the roof, the calming look on the Narrator’s face swam into focus, and he forced himself to try and breathe evenly. He could do this. He could figure it out. He had to, for the both of them.

Okay.

The Narrator’s thumbs were rubbing circles on his shoulders, trying to help bring him down from the panic attack. “There, you’ve got this,” he murmured. “Welcome back, dear boy. I’m going to assume you couldn’t remember the name?”

Stanley nodded, his throat dry.

“That’s alright then. We’ll figure it out a different way.”

Finally letting him go, the Narrator turned back to the table of maps and started sorting through them. Finding one with the city they currently resided in sitting prominent in the center, he passed it over to Stanley.

“Look through this for a bit, see if you see anything familiar,” he said, voice calm and even. “If you don’t, don’t worry, Stanley. Try to memorize it, or at least a few places you think will help us for the time being. You know more about what humans need than I do; you’ll be able to help us greatly right now, even if we can’t find your old life right off the bat.”

Shifting closer in his chair, the Narrator nudged their shoulders together. “You’ve got this, Stanley. I believe in you.”

Stanley felt the last of his panic recede, finally, and he let out a breath. He smiled. _Thank you._

“No problem at all, dear boy.”

* * *

They gave up a few hours later, leaving with no more information than they’d started with. At one point, Stanley had stood up to walk around, stretch out his legs a bit, and discovered the technology hub in the library. He wasted no time in hopping on one of the computers and searching up the city they were in. It took a moment for him to adjust to the technology; these computers were so much more advanced than the ones he was used to from his old office. They were faster, too, which was a bonus.

But that search led nowhere familiar, so he tried looking up his old job. He only realized after typing in several variations of ‘job where you press buttons all day’ that that wasn’t… the most descriptive title for what he did.

Instead, he tried looking up events in the recent past. He figured, hey, a whole building of office workers suddenly disappearing for an unknown time would probably crop up on the news. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone, so he cast his search back as far as the 1950s. He didn’t _think_ he disappeared that long ago, what with how modern his offices and the technology inside were, but he couldn’t be too thorough. Everything surrounding him was a mystery right now that he couldn’t afford to pass up information on.

Still nothing.

He sighed and turned the computer off after that fruitless search, sitting back in the chair and staring at the ceiling. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Of course he wouldn’t be able to just, escape the Parable and return to his normal life. Nothing was ever that easy for him.

Instead of dwelling on it, which would only lead to more misery, Stanley decided to go back to their table and see what the Narrator had found.

Apparently, he’d found several books.

As he heard Stanley approach, the Narrator’s head shot up. He looked elated. “Stanley, look what I found!”

Stanley almost didn’t remember to shush him again, because the look on the Narrator’s face was enough to have him feeling hopeful. Had they been looking in the wrong place? Was there something in one of the books instead? He ran over, leaning over the other man’s shoulder to see what he’d found.

It was… a novel. Several fiction novels, actually, stacked up on the table with some open. The maps had been pushed to the side, to make room for more books.

 _What’s this?_ Stanley asked, confused.

“I got bored, waiting for you, so I started exploring,” the Narrator explained. “I knew libraries were sources of information, but I guess I didn’t know just how many marvels they contained!”

He laughed, closing the book he’d been reading a moment earlier, and showed Stanley the cover. “I never thought you humans were all that creative, I must say,” he admitted. “But I’ve been proven so irrevocably wrong, and for once I am _glad!_ ”

He continued chattering, even as Stanley was floundering to catch up. “Of course, I’ve found quite a few that didn’t live up to my expectations narrative-wise, but that’s to be expected when you’re a powerful inter-dimensional Narrator like myself. But oh, there are enough _actually good_ stories here, I could spend the next millennia just reading and reading and never get bored- that’s such a novel feeling! Stanley, I think I actually like this place!”

His smile was so sunny, so genuine and excited, that Stanley felt himself staring. He didn’t know what to say in the face of all that, so he settled for asking, _How did you read all those so fast?_

The Narrator chuckled. “Oh, Stanley. I’m a _very_ fast reader.”

He went back to reading, and Stanley sank into the seat next to him numbly. He felt so lost, near hopeless, but it was hard to feel the full weight of that next to the Narrator. He’d started humming idly as he read, flipping pages at a rate that would have any college-level English professor feeling left behind. He laughed a couple times, clicking his tongue as he doubtless got to an entertaining part of the book.

“So, did you find anything?” the Narrator asked after a few moments of silence. His nose was still buried in one of the books, but he looked up to meet Stanley’s eyes briefly.

Stanley shook his head, hands clasped in his lap. He didn’t know what to say.

“Hmm. Pity.” The Narrator set the book down and reached out to pat Stanley’s arm. “You’ll find something soon, don’t worry about it.”

Stanley gazed out over the table and stacks of books, contemplative. He shook his head minutely, before sighing and reaching for one of the stacks of books. He might as well find something entertaining to read for a little while, before the library closed. He sorted through the stack, until he got to the last one.

Before he could finish even reading the cover, the Narrator snatched it from his hands, cheeks flaming.

He tried hiding it in his lap, under the table, but Stanley noticed and frowned. _What’s that one?_ he asked, scooting closer.

“Nothing, it’s nothing.” The answer came too quickly for it to really be nothing, so Stanley pressed on.

_Narrator…_

The other man cleared his throat awkwardly, before pulling the book back out and setting it on the table. “It’s, er, it must have gotten mixed in with the others while I was searching. It’s nothing, I’ll put it back in a bit.”

But Stanley wasn’t listening. He instead pulled the book closer to get a better look at the cover. A fairytale-esque illustration of an embracing couple greeted his eyes, the both of them dressed in what looked like older clothing. The spine was worn and soft, obviously having been read many, many times. And embossed on the top, in curling golden letters, the title: ‘ _The Princess Bride’._

“Look, Stanley, it’s nothing,” the Narrator was rambling, trying to tug the book back and stand. His face was turning interesting colors, and he was looking everywhere except at Stanley. “I’ll just go put it back, I’ll put all of these back and we can continue looking for your home. That’s what we’re here for, right? This was silly of me, getting distracted like this, I mean- it’s your job to get distracted when we’re going something important, right? Haha, look at me, making a mess of things, I’ll just-”

Stanley let go of the book and the Narrator snatched it to his chest, eyes pinned to the floor. Stanley actually had to snap his fingers a couple times to get him to look back up, before he signed, _Hey, it’s just a book. It’s okay._ He smiled, before adding _It’s actually a pretty good book. I haven’t read it in awhile, obviously, but it was one of my favorites._

The Narrator’s shoulders sagged slightly, but he still seemed on edge. “Still, it’s silly for me to get caught up in all this. I’ll just put it away and we can keep looking, shall we?”

He didn’t seem entirely reassured, but Stanley decided to let it go for now. _Actually, we should probably be heading out soon. We need to eat again and get back to the church before dark. We can try again tomorrow._

Nodding, the Narrator quickly gathered up the books he’d strewn around and started drifting from shelf to shelf, putting them in their exact spots from memory. Stanley folded up the maps and did the same, filing them away and making a note of where they were in case he needed to look at them again.

By the time they left, the sun was dipping low in the sky, painting the clouds brilliant shades of orange and pink. The Narrator actually stopped in the library entrance, jaw dropping in awe at the sight.

“It’s…” he whispered, trailing off. “It’s beautiful, Stanley.”

Stanley looked up with him, admiring the view. They were too busy trying to find shelter the night before, that neither of them had taken the time to watch the sunset. But now, they had a moment, and watch it they did.

A few minutes later, the light show faded as the sun fell lower. A tangible chill filled the air, and Stanley shivered. He grabbed the Narrator’s arm and pulled him along, retracing their steps back to the old church.

The Narrator was quiet for most of the trip, but as they were walking down the last street, their destination in view a few blocks down, he finally spoke up.

“Are sunsets always like that?” he asked so quietly, Stanley almost missed it.

 _Not always,_ he said, arm accidentally brushing up against the other man’s as he signed. _They’re different every time. But they are always that beautiful._

The Narrator went silent again. When Stanley looked over, he was smiling softly.


	9. If You or Someone You Know is Being Bullied, Reach Out to an Adult for Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for: homophobia and a panic attack. Like, more of one than usual I guess
> 
> Sorry for forgetting to update yesterday, I finally have all my stuff moved over but it took its toll on me and I've been busy sleeping and working and cleaning and uhhh yeah. Also this story is starting to take a more depressing turn, and unfortunately, things are gonna get a lot worse before they get better. 
> 
> Kudos!

They fall into a sort of pattern over the next few days. Stanley wakes up first, sometimes with the Narrator having subconsciously huddled close to him for warmth during the night. They get up and go out, find some food and are careful in not stealing from the same place twice. There’s too much hanging in the balance for them to get caught right now.

After eating, they head to the library. Stanley goes to continue his search on the computer, while the Narrator flits between shelves, reading book after book and letting his curiosity run rampant. He hopped onto the computer next to Stanley at one point, but got frustrated at it and quit after a few minutes.

“They’re so much harder to control than my old screens,” he grumbled, fingers poking at the keyboard. “How do you people manage to navigate these things quickly when they aren’t directly tied to your subconscious?”

Stanley expanded his search, trying to find anything familiar, catching himself up on recent events to try and get a feel for when he might have disappeared. But no matter how far back he looked or where, nothing rang a bell. It was almost as if he disappeared entirely, along with any trace of his existence. It was more than a little frustrating, but he couldn’t give up. He didn’t know what they’d do if he quit.

Not three days into one of their routine library trips, the Narrator memorized the organization system. He stopped wandering, dragging them to different centers each day to set up and staying there instead. Thankfully there were computers everywhere in the library, hidden in every nook and cranny, so Stanley didn’t mind where the Narrator insisted they spend their time. He just settled in as the Narrator grabbed certain books and made a small stack on the table next to them. Like that, they were able to lose themselves in their own little worlds for hours at a time.

At one point, they’d been sitting side by side for a few hours in companionable silence when the Narrator slumped against Stanley’s shoulder, startling him out of the article he’d been reading. Alarmed, Stanley turned to ask what was going on, but stopped when he heard the Narrator snoring softly.

He’d apparently fallen asleep in the middle of reading a book about coding. In hindsight, Stanley didn’t blame him- they’d been staying at the library later and later, and without any form of transport, they had to make the journeys on foot. Stanley was feeling pretty tired himself.

But in the moment, all Stanley could do was flush. The Narrator was warm, almost inhumanly so, and his head felt comfortably heavy against Stanley’s shoulder. His soft hair tickled Stanley’s nose, shifting with every breath he took. He seemed so peaceful in his accidental nap, and the innocence behind the action only served to make Stanley feel more flustered.

He huffed, shaking his head to clear his mind, and went back to reading. He would ignore it. The Narrator would wake up eventually. Things would go back to normal. In the meantime, Stanley had research to do and that was _far_ more important.

Stanley zoned out again after some time had passed, too absorbed to realize when he’d subconsciously leaned back into the Narrator. He crossed his arms as his eyes scanned an article on some fairly recent kidnappings, mind too preoccupied to realize they had an audience of sorts.

He only noticed when their snickering turned to whispers.

“God, they’re so gross,” one person said, just loud enough for Stanley to hear. He stared intently at his screen, trying to focus on reading, but his interest was piqued enough that he didn’t see the words.

“Yeah, they look like they crawled out of a dumpster or something. Probably smell like it too,” another voice added quietly, eliciting a round of laughter.

Stanley’s shoulders tensed as he tried harder to finish reading, but he wasn’t paying attention to the article anymore.

“Do you think they’re homeless?” the first voice asked, voice raising just a bit. It was almost as if they’d noticed him listening, and weren’t bothering to hide their disdain anymore.

A third voice, deeper than the others, chimed in. “Probably. Lotsa’ damn queers out on the streets ‘round here.”

Stanley felt his heart stop as they cackled maliciously. His fight or flight response, which had been honed to near perfection from the untold amount of time in the Parable, kicked in. But the Narrator was still dozing on his shoulder, and Stanley’s anxiety spiked as one of the people said something he didn’t catch, and they laughed harder, and he felt like he was choking on the air in his lungs.

He shifted in his seat, delicately trying to wake the Narrator up from his impromptu nap. It worked, and the man’s head shot up. He blinked blearily, clearly as confused by the situation as Stanley had been minutes earlier.

“Wh-”

Stanley reached over and gripped his wrist, silencing him. He continued to stare straight ahead.

It took a moment, but the Narrator heard what was going on behind them, and read the situation correctly. “Are they laughing at… us?” he asked, voice small and tone indecipherable.

Stanley nodded stiffly. He didn’t trust himself to meet the other man’s eyes, ashamed of his discomfort and not wanting the Narrator to see how much it was affecting him.

A beat of silence passed, in which Stanley got curious enough to surreptitiously glance over.

He shouldn’t have.

The Narrator’s eyes were blazing with fury, so stark that Stanley could almost see the unnatural light they used to shine with. His fists were clenched on the desk. Stanley could feel the tendons in the wrist he was still holding tensed, standing out from under his thin skin, and he felt something like dread creeping up on him.

He released the Narrator’s wrist to sign _Don’t-_

The Narrator shot to his feet, spinning on his heel and glaring daggers at the people behind them. Their laughter stopped as he started shouting.

“So you think it’s funny to mock people, hmm?” the Narrator asked, words dripping with barely-concealed venom. “Is that where you humans get your entertainment from? Laughing at those they deem ‘beneath’ them? And for what? _What_ do you see in us that’s worth mockery? Go on, I dare you to name something worthwhile, and maybe I would deem it necessary to name a few _untasteful_ things about yourselves to even out the score.”

Stanley turned in his chair, reaching out to try and grab the Narrator’s shoulder and bring him down, calm him before he made a scene, but he was having none of it. He shrugged Stanley off and took a step forward, out of range.

The three people, who Stanley could now see were about college-aged, shared a collective glance. The tallest of them chuckled, his deep voice sending a spike of anxiety shooting through Stanley.

“Look at this guy,” he said to his friends, “thinkin’ he’s hot shit. Thinks he can mouth off, say whatever he wants. Thinks it hurts.”

“It’s pathetic,” the person belonging to the first voice added. He was the shortest and rattiest-looking out of the trio by far, sitting with his arms crossed over the back of one of the library chairs.

The last person had their feet kicked up on the computer desk, picking under their dirty nails with a sharpened pencil. “Old man oughta go find the nursing home he wandered off from. Maybe bring his boy-toy with him, get the both of them off the streets and into a crazy house where they belong.” They sneered, eyeing Stanley, whose heart was ready to beat its way out of his chest.

“Crazy house, that’s good,” the guy who seemed to be the leader said, punching his friend in the shoulder. “Especially with the way he talks- ‘deem it necessary’, ha! What are you, an English teacher wannabe?”

A round of laughter. “From outer space too. ‘You humans’, he says, how fuckin’ lame is that.”

The Narrator opened his mouth to say something, but Stanley’s world was closing in to a pinpoint. That was enough.

He stood quickly, grabbing the Narrator’s arm in a death grip, and started walking. The sudden change yanked the Narrator off balance, but he caught himself and followed, confused and still enraged.

“But Stanley-”

Stanley jerkily shook his head, squeezing his wrist to cut him off. His teeth were clenched painfully; he was using it to ground himself; something to focus on, staving off the panic attack until they got out of the public eye. Laughter followed them down the aisles, but the kids stayed in their seats.

As soon as the two of them found a quiet, empty space, Stanley snatched his hand back and collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He felt lightheaded. Adrenaline was still rushing through him, and he had to swallow down bile that was trying to work its way up his throat.

“Stanley, I can’t believe you just let them get away with that!” the Narrator exclaimed, not noticing Stanley’s state. “Awful people like that deserve to be punished, in my book. Oh, for want of my old office back- I would write them an ending or two so horrible, they’d never utter another word against anyone again.”

He was pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly now that he was free, but stopped to take a breath and turned to see Stanley’s reaction. Or rather, lack of one.

“Stanley?” he asked, concerned. He stepped forward, kneeling next to him and reaching out.  

Stanley leaned into the touch for only a moment, before jerking back. He couldn’t do that, he couldn’t-

The Narrator was silent a moment, thoughtful, before sighing. “I apologize for my… aggressive reaction. I don’t regret what I said, but I guess… Er, are you alright?”

Stanley wiped furiously at his cheeks, gritting his teeth in embarrassment at his tearful reaction. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He nodded, sniffing, and gave the Narrator a tight smile. _I’m fine. We should get going._

The Narrator watched him a moment more, trying to read his expression, before giving in and nodding. “It is getting rather late. Let’s go, then.” He was clearly only giving up the topic for Stanley’s benefit, but Stanley was eternally grateful for that.

He offered a hand as Stanley got to his feet, but it went ignored.

They left the library, neither of them commenting on the new distance between them.

* * *

Stanley tried to forget what the kids had said, tried to block out the sound of their laughter, but their comments on their appearances stuck in his mind on the walk home. They _were_ getting sort of grungy, having lived and slept in the clothes they’d escaped in for almost a week. Despite what all they’d said, that much was true. Their clothes were ruined.

As the sun set, Stanley decided to do something to fix that. He’d seen in passing one of those clothes donation bins that were usually kept in the parking lots of bigger stores, tucked near the dumpster of a local grocer. He remembered making a mental note about its location, subconsciously realizing that they would have to do something about their clothing situation sooner or later, but having had more pressing matters on mind at the time.

It seemed now was the time.

They took a detour on their route back to the church, making it to the parking lot as the streetlights started to flicker on. The store had closed less than an hour ago, but if Stanley squinted, he could still see employees moving about inside.

They leaned back against the side of the bin facing away from the door. _We’ll have to wait,_ Stanley said. _We don’t want to be seen._

The temperature dropped steadily as they waited, but within the hour, the lights inside the store turned off, and Stanley deemed it safe. He pushed the heavy metal lid open, and they dug in.

He found a few articles of clothing soon enough, folding them over his arm so he could keep looking. Some sweaters, a couple pairs of jeans that might be a bit short, but were pretty sturdy. He stocked up on socks and underwear, grabbed a pair of gloves, and sat back on his heels to watch the Narrator...

...who hadn’t picked out a single thing. He was tossing everything he picked up back into the bin, barely sparing them a glance.

 _Narrator, you have to get some new clothes,_ Stanley said, snapping to get his attention.

The Narrator huffed. “I don’t like any of these. They’re so… secondhand.”

 _Yeah, because they_ **_are_ ** _secondhand,_ Stanley explained. _But it’s all we have. You have to pick something._

The other man held up a grey hoodie with some miscellaneous sports team logo fading on the front, and made a face. “Ugh. Couldn’t someone have donated something a little classier?”

Shrugging, Stanley grabbed it and started a second pile for the Narrator. _If they had something nice they wanted to get rid of, they probably sold it. No one will buy this stuff, so they either toss it or donate it. Be thankful there’s even warm clothes here- it’s getting cold and we’re going to need them._

With Stanley’s help, the Narrator picked out a few more things, complaining the whole time. They did manage to find a few heavy jackets for themselves and a bigger, not-moth-eaten blanket, which Stanley snagged for their pile back at the church.

Soon, their shivering became unbearable and they decided unanimously to head back. Stanley had already put his new jacket on, and convinced the Narrator to do the same with his hoodie and a black scarf he’d taken a liking to. Well, more of a liking than anything else they’d found.

After bundling up, the Narrator whined about the cold significantly less, which Stanley counted as a victory. They wrapped up their haul, making sure nothing was left out of place to show they’d been there, and left for the church.

Stanley shouldered the door closed behind them and yawned, the cold and the mental stress earlier weighing down on him and making him tired. He shuffled over to the table they’d pushed into the corner of the room and dumped his pile of clothing on it, digging through it until he found the new blanket and going over to their pallet to lay it out with the others.

As he was rearranging the pile, the Narrator did the same, dumping his clothes to sort through later. Stanley was so absorbed in making sure the pallet wasn’t uncomfortably lumpy that he didn’t notice the Narrator had approached him until he spoke up.

“I’m… sorry, for losing my temper earlier,” the Narrator said quietly.

Stanley looked up at him and smiled after a moment. _It’s okay,_ he said, averting his gaze as his cheeks colored. _I might have overreacted a little as well. People can be awful, there’s nothing we can do about that except ignore them and live our lives._

Huffing, the Narrator said “That doesn’t mean they should get away with it. What they said was distressing you and irritating me. It was unacceptable.”

 _Maybe so,_ Stanley responded. _Drop it anyways. I’m tired, and you are too._

The Narrator dropped it as requested, and helped him rearrange the pallet until it was suitably comfortable. They bundled themselves up underneath the new blanket, back to back as they usually started out. Stanley closed his eyes, ready to leave this whole day behind him.

He was about to drift off when the Narrator moved, rousing him. It was slow and gentle, almost as if he was scared of disturbing Stanley, but after a few moments of shifting and readjusting, he was pressed up against Stanley’s back. Stanley felt the Narrator’s warm breath on the back of his neck as he turned his head, pressing his cheek between Stanley’s shoulders. His arms were still wrapped around his own middle, squished between their bodies in what felt like a horrifyingly uncomfortable position, but after he settled down, he didn’t move again. It was like he’d frozen in place, waiting to see what happened next.

Stanley was frozen. The Narrator felt so warm against his back, so blissfully, unreachably warm. He felt himself sinking into the feeling, but as he did, whispers filled his mind. Laughter, phantom words that washed over him and made his throat close up in panic. They grew louder and louder, making Stanley’s eyes clench shut, trying to block them out, but nothing was working and they just grew louder and louder until they were deafening-

He shifted away, the movement small but feeling more like he was tearing himself at the roots, and they abated. He let out a breath and curled himself tighter, trying to ignore the almost hurt silence from behind him.

But he felt that distance between the two of them all through the sleepless night.


	10. waitin on the bus in the rain in the rain (except its not raining why did i say that why do i do any of this)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, running a poll I guess. The next chapter is finished, but it's like. Super long. On average the chapters have been 4-5 pages long, some dipping into 6 territory, but the next one is currently at 13 pages. There are a couple places I could split it, but it might interrupt the flow a little? And it would leave the chapters significantly shorter, like four pages then three then five, roughly. I can't do math. 
> 
> Poll is this: One monster chapter, or three smaller ones? Just whatever you guys want, I'm cool with.

Days passed, and the incident was put behind them. Stanley forced himself to maintain a distance from the Narrator, who seemed to catch on and did so as well. It hurt, and Stanley didn’t know entirely why he was doing it, but he rationalized it in that they had been getting too close since they escaped. The Narrator, after all, had spent so long torturing him in the Parable- why were they getting so cozy _now?_ It didn’t make sense, and it just drew more unwanted attention their way, so he stopped.

It hurt, but it was the best option. Stanley was sure of it.

Worst finally came to worst, in a different way. They’d been having to tread farther and farther to get food at places that didn’t recognize them, places they wouldn’t be caught, and it came to a head at the point where they just couldn’t walk any more. Stanley hesitantly suggested they start back at the beginning, but they had to be more careful, lest someone recognize them.

Despite their caution, they were caught red handed. A few weeks, bordering on a month after they’d arrived, an employee at a small chain store they’d been to a couple times recognized them and called out. She had her hand to her ear and was talking quickly into her radio, apparently calling backup.

Stanley panicked and grabbed the Narrator’s arm, dropping the food they’d been holding and bolting for the door. Instead of giving chase, which Stanley was scared would happen, the employee just shrugged and shot them a glare as they left, going to pick up the food they’d dropped and reorganize the shelf.

They stood in an alley a few blocks down from the store, catching their breath. Stanley was shaking. It wasn’t even that much of a close call, but the paranoia that had been plaguing him for weeks was finally catching up to him and he felt like throwing up.

A hand squeezed his shoulder and he looked up.

“It’s going to be okay, Stanley,” the Narrator said, smiling softly. “We’ll find something else out. Just because they recognized us there, doesn’t mean we’ll get caught anywhere else.”

 _But it’s still too close,_ Stanley protested. _Any try could be our last. If we mess even one thing up, everything goes up in flames._ His shoulders started shaking again, silent tears creeping up on him.

The Narrator reached out with his other hand and firmly grasped both of Stanley’s shoulders to steady him. Neither of them commented on the fact that this was the most contact they’d had in days. “Stanley, Stanley. Look at me. We’ll figure something out. There are other options, I promise. We’ll find them.”

Stanley stared into his eyes for a long moment. Everything was piling up, it all felt like so much, too much, but he needed to hold himself together. If only because the Narrator needed him. He was the only one who knew this world. He needed to find a solution. He nodded.

Scrubbing at the tear tracks on his cheeks, Stanley reluctantly backed out of the Narrator’s grasp. Setting his shoulders, he flashed the man a tired smile. _Alright. Let’s find somewhere else to eat, then head to the library._

The Narrator smiled proudly. “I’ll follow you, dear boy.”

Stanley turned away before the Narrator could see him blush.

* * *

As Stanley sat down at the computer, the Narrator puttering around the shelves behind him, he started formulating a plan. Only the bare bones of a plan admittedly, but something that they needed to do soon. They were running out of options.

He clicked through the browser, fingers hovering over the keys for a moment. He chewed on his lip. He _really_ didn’t want to stoop this far, but really, how different was their current situation from a homeless shelter?

For the next half hour, Stanley ran a series of searches for various homeless shelters and food banks in the city. At one point he asked a nearby student for some paper and a spare pen, and proceeded to write down the names and directions to each of them.

He tapped the tip of the pen against his lip, thinking. It wasn’t that big of a city, and there weren’t many options. To find anything with a good chance of working, they’d have to travel deeper into the city. Stanley didn’t like that, the idea of being around more people, more activity, but they didn’t have much of a choice. Either stay where they were and freeze or starve to death, or find a different solution.

After checking and double checking his directions, and locating the nearest bus stop, Stanley gave the student back their pen and went to retrieve the Narrator.

“That was fast,” he commented, putting his books away without looking. “Where are we going now, then?”

 _To get some much-needed help,_ was all Stanley said.

“Now what does that mean?”

He ignored the Narrator’s questioning as they left, headed towards the bus stop. Stanley didn’t want to walk the whole way into the city proper- not only would their feet be sore by the end of it, but by the time they got where they needed to be, it would be dark. Public transportation was faster, even if there were more people.

* * *

It took a good half hour of walking to make it to the nearest bus stop. Then, it was another twenty minutes of waiting before the next bus would arrive. There weren’t too many other people at the stop with them, which Stanley counted as a blessing. He fidgeted awkwardly the whole time, checking and rechecking his directions and looking up every time a car passed.

“Are you ready to tell me where we’re going?” the Narrator asked after awhile. He had his arms crossed, and an eyebrow raised impatiently. “I don’t like going into these things blind, you know. I’m not a fan of surprises.”

Stanley grimaced. That was fair. He tucked the paper under his arm and signed, _I’m sorry, I’m just nervous._

“What for?”

 _Well…_ Stanley didn’t know exactly how to work this, so he just tried his best, averting his gaze. _We’re going into the city to try and find help. Being out here by ourselves like this is working right now, but we can’t keep doing it forever. We can’t keep stealing to eat forever either. I’m no further in finding my old life, and that was what we were working towards before. It’s getting colder, and if we don’t get a real roof over our heads soon, we’ll freeze to death. It’s time to give up on that for now, and get somewhere more stable before we continue our search._

The Narrator frowned in thought. He rubbed his chin idly. “But what do you expect to find in the city? How will that help us?”

Stanley pulled out his list again, offering it to the Narrator. He took it after a moment and looked over it.

 _There are some places we can go where the people will help us,_ Stanley explained. _Homeless shelters are meant just for that- for people who don’t have a home, who don’t have food and don’t know what to do next. They have food and clothes we won’t have to steal, shelter from the elements. And real beds, even if they’re not the most comfortable._

The Narrator chuckled, still reading. “Imagine that.”

 _Yeah._ Stanley smiled. Maybe this would be easier than he thought. _We just need to go to them and explain our situation and they’ll help us. I know they will._

“If you’re sure, Stanley,” the Narrator said, folding up the paper and handing it back to him.

Stanley slipped it in his back pocket and looked over as the bus slid to a stop with a hiss of brakes.

The doors opened, letting out a whoosh of warm air. A few people filed out, wrapping scarves tighter and pulling hats down farther against the cold that greeted them. They passed around the pair on their own ways, chattering or checking phones.

Stanley waited for them all to pass, before stepping forward, trusting the Narrator to follow. They started up the stairs, Stanley’s mind already on the next step of their plan, when a burly arm stopped him in his tracks.

The bus driver, a grizzled looking older man, glared at them. “Fare, boy.”

Stanley cocked his head, confused.

“Pay the fare or get off.” The driver pointed to a little box attached to the railing, with a little coin slot on top. The peeling label read ‘25 cents’.

Stanley’s shoulders dropped. He looked back at the Narrator helplessly, who shrugged.

“You know I don’t have anything.”

It was looking like they’d be forced to walk anyways, when a voice behind them piped up.

“Come on, Kelley, it’s just two quartah’s.” The nasally voice came from a shorter figure, bundled up in a number of mismatched layers. Two or three scarves were wrapped around their lower face, and as they looked up, a pair of warm brown eyes peeked out from under the brim of a worn hat. “Let ‘em on. It’s cold as balls out here.”

The driver, Kelley, frowned. “Now, you know I’m not supposed to do that…”

The person spoke up again, barking out a laugh before saying in a teasing tone, “I once saw you let a pretty gal ride free ‘cuz she smiled at ya. You can’t bullshit me, man.”

Stanley saw the man’s already-ruddy cheeks flush imperceptibly. “Alright alright, get on you two. Ride’s on me, but I won’t be so easy on you next time.”

Stanley was frozen to the spot, but the Narrator helpfully poked in him the back, urging him along. He snapped out of his trance and sat heavily in the nearest empty seat. The Narrator followed suit, sitting across the aisle from him.

Stanley looked up to try and catch the eye of their apparent savior, but they had already shuffled off towards the back of the bus and were soon lost in the throng of people.

With a jolt, the doors closed and the bus started on its way. Stanley looked back to the front and shook his head, frowning. He would have to file that away for later- they had more important things to do in the meantime.


	11. Tomato Soup for the Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Verdict was: one monster chapter, hell yeah. 
> 
> A uhh. Lot. Happens. Buckle up, folks.

They stood in front of a squat little building, out of place surrounded by the towering skyscrapers of the city proper. The bricks that made up the walls were crumbling, obviously not very well-taken care of. ‘First Haven’, read the sign in curly letters, paint faded with age. A couple people sat on the steps leading up to the door, or leaned against the metal banister, talking. One of them was smoking, making Stanley’s nose wrinkle.

He swallowed drily. He looked down at the steps in front of him, willing his foot to move, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do this. There was so much that could go wrong. Stanley hadn’t extensively interacted with someone else in so long, what if he stumbled or froze up like he had on the bus? He was frozen right now! Oh, this was such a bad idea, they needed to turn around and head back right now, they would be fine everything would be-

“Stanley.” The Narrator spoke up behind him, snapping him out of his thoughts. Stanley looked back at him meekly.

The Narrator was smiling softly. “You’ve got this. Let’s go inside, Stanley.”

Swallowing again, Stanley forced himself to nod and smile back. He turned back to the door, and let out the breath he’d been holding. He could do this. Everything would be fine.

He walked up the stairs, the Narrator close behind, and pushed open the door to the homeless shelter.

Inside was a mess of activity, or it at least seemed as much due to how cramped and crowded it was. Every chair in the tiny lobby area was occupied by tired adults, scruffy teenagers, harried mothers toting crying babies. There was a constant chatter, interspersed with shouts and arguments back and forth, and above all, the near-constant ringing of multiple phones.

Stanley felt his heart rate jumping, but a brief, light touch at his elbow centered him long enough to step forward.

The only person waiting at the counter cleared out as Stanley and the Narrator approached, spinning around with a huff and pushing past them. Stanley stumbled back, off balance.

“Hello, how can I help you?” the lady behind the counter asked. She was typing away on her computer, not even paying attention to them. One of the half-dozen phones on the desk next to her rang, and she didn’t even look up as another employee slid their chair over to answer.

Stanley raised his hands to answer, before realizing she might not understand him. Biting his lip, he looked to the Narrator. _Could you translate for me?_

The Narrator raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t understand why I’m the only one who knows what you’re saying. It’s not that hard-”

_Please?_

Sighing, the Narrator gave in. “Yes, I will. Go on.”

The lady still hadn’t looked up at them, so Stanley was at a loss on how to start. Where was one supposed to start with something like this?

 _We… need help,_ he said. _We don’t have anywhere to stay, and we need food, too._

“We are in need of assistance,” the Narrator translated. “We’re staying in an abandoned church and stealing-”

Stanley elbowed him.

“...and we need food, too,” the Narrator finished, shooting him a glare.

The woman continued typing, speaking boredly to them as if off of a script. “First Haven Homeless Shelter is a non-profit organization dedicated to helping the homeless population of the city by giving them somewhere to stay while they work towards getting back on their feet. We also run a twenty-four hour food bank and give out care packages according to need. To apply for a short-term place with us, all that we require is a state-issued I.D., proof of income, and an eviction notice from your last landlord or equivalent. After signing in with us, you will be put on a list and given a time or date to come back for an interview, so that we may determine your circumstances and how much help we will be able to provide.”

Stanley blinked.

She finally looked up from her computer to level a bored stare at him. “Sir? Did you get all that?”

Stanley nodded slowly, still trying to parse through the load of information she’d just dumped on them.

“Well, we’re going to need to see some I.D. then, to get you signed in.” She pushed forward a clipboard that was sitting on the counter, tapping on it with a poorly-manicured nail. “Then proof of income, either through the local Department for Work and Pensions or your most recent wage slips. And finally, either an eviction notice from your landlord or a letter from the person who asked you to leave, stating when as well as why.”

Stanley clenched and unclenched his fists nervously. They didn’t have any of those things. What was he supposed to say?

_Ma’am, neither of us have… an I.D. Or income. We don’t have… jobs._

The Narrator rolled his eyes. “We don’t have any of those.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, looking at them over her glasses. “If you don’t have the paperwork with you, you can just write down the name and number of your job and we can get in contact with them for you. Same goes for your landlord.”

“You don’t understand,” the Narrator said, frowning. “We don’t _have_ jobs. Never have, here at least. Nor were we kicked out of any particular place. We’re just on our own, but Stanley here decided that won’t work anymore, so here we are.”

Turning entirely away from her computer, the woman leaned on her arms against the counter. “If you weren’t evicted, then where did you stay before you were homeless? If you’ve never held a job, how have you made money? Sir, you’re being irrational. You had to have come from somewhere before falling to where you are now.” She was giving them a look of extreme irritation.

The Narrator opened his mouth to argue, but Stanley caught his eye before he could say anything. _We can’t tell her the truth._

“Well, why not?” The Narrator crossed his arms.

_She won’t believe us. She’ll think we’re crazy._

“That’s preposterous, Stanley,” the Narrator responded. “Why would she not believe me? I am, after all, a master when it comes to my words. Watch-”

Without giving Stanley a moment to object, he turned back to the lady and started speaking. “We are from another… dimension, of sorts. I am the Narrator, and though I am all-powerful there, I have no dominion over this world and therefore cannot control it as I am able to with my Parable. We landed here in an escape pod that mysteriously disappeared after we exited, and wandered through many open fields to find this city. We have been living in an abandoned church for the past few weeks, but now we require additional help.”

He smiled at Stanley. “See? Short and sweet, and easily understandable. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

But Stanley was chewing his lip, watching to see how the woman reacted.

“...” She closed her eyes, took a breath, and grinned tightly. “Of course, sir,” she said, taking on a tone of someone dealing with a child. “That sounds perfectly reasonable. Here, why don’t I write you out a form, and direct you to someone that might be able to help?”

Looking very self-satisfied, the Narrator chuckled. “Much obliged. And to think Stanley was saying you’d think us crazy. Ha! Imagine that, someone thinking _me_ crazy.”

She scribbled something out on a piece of paper and slid it over the counter towards Stanley, who was staring sort of dumbfounded. He picked it up, hesitant, but felt his spirits fall when he read what she’d written.

_“Aspen Grove Mental Care Facility is located just down the road. I would advise you take him there immediately, and come back when you have some papers.”_

“Now, Stanley, if we could just-” the Narrator started, but yelped when Stanley grabbed his arm and made a beeline for the door. “Yes, of course. Where are we going?”

 _Nowhere,_ Stanley responded, letting him go once them made it out the door. He crumpled up the paper and shoved it in a trashcan as they passed, face flushed in shame. _She thought we were crazy. She wanted me to take you to an asylum._

For once, the Narrator was stunned into silence. He stopped in his tracks, which Stanley didn’t notice until he’d walked several paces further and turned around.

“But… I explained it,” the Narrator said, confused. “I explained everything. How could she not understand?”

Stanley walked closer, frustration bubbling up and over. _Because none of that happens here!_ he said, movements fast and jerky. _In the real world, people don’t just appear and say they were trapped in another world! If they do, they’re marked as crazy and locked away! That just doesn’t happen!_

“But it happened to us.”

 _Yes,_ Stanley responded. _But we seem to be an outlier here. People don’t listen to things they don’t understand. They’re not gonna believe us, especially since we can’t prove what happened._

The Narrator looked distressed, eyes far away. “But, but I explained it! You know I always speak the truth, how could she not believe me! _I_ know what happened to us, isn’t that enough?”

Stanley sighed. _Not always._

He started walking again, and after a moment, the Narrator did too. Stanley pulled out the wrinkled paper he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier, and tried to remember which place was closest to them. They’d just have to try again, and hopefully, this time would be easier.

* * *

It wasn’t easier.

They spent all day hopping from place to place, trekking across the city in the hopes that someone would take them, that someone would understand. But every single one was the same.

They needed papers.

They needed identification.

They needed _proof._

But they had nothing, so nobody would help. Turned away at every door, scowled at by every person, it was humiliating. Stanley wanted to try and fabricate a past, but he wasn’t good enough at lying and the Narrator was still adamant that the truth should be enough. Nothing worked no matter where they went, and Stanley just wanted to cry.

It was getting late, they were starving, and Stanley was at his wit’s end when a nice man at the most recent shelter took pity on them. He directed them to a soup kitchen just down the block that didn’t require identification, no papers, nothing like that. It wasn’t much, but their stomachs were growling and it would be a good place to stay for a minute while they thought of their next steps. Stanley gratefully accepted the idea and he and the Narrator headed out.

The cold bit into their faces. They were bundled up in their scavenged clothes, and that took most of the bite away, but there was only so much they could do as the sun dipped and the temperature dropped. Stanley decided they would head back after this and try again in the morning; after all, there had to be _somewhere_ that would take them. There had to be someone out there that was kind enough to lend a hand.

The soup kitchen was housed in an old church, similar to the one they were staying in, but this one in significantly better repair. Old yellow lights cast a warm and homey glow about the place, despite the peeling paint on the walls. The grand front doors were closed against the wind, but a sign hung up said ‘Come in, Warm up, and Eat with Us!’ in hand-painted letters.

Closing the door behind them, Stanley was hit with the delicious smell of warm stew and fresh bread. He could hear talking, laughter coming from down the hallway. The two of them made their way that direction, and found themselves in the middle of a friendly scene.

The wooden pews in the worship area had been moved, arranged like benches on either side of long plastic tables. A larger table was set up against one wall, draped with a patchwork sheet and covered in dozens of pots of wonderful-smelling soups. Interspersed among the stewpots were baskets piled high with still-steaming rolls, and on one end was a pair of pitchers, one with water and the other labelled ‘Sweet Tea’. Paper bowls and plates and plastic cups were stacked up next to them.

There was a crowd, which initially put Stanley on edge, but they all seemed to be grouped together, chatting and laughing and putting out an air of familiarity that soothed his anxiety. They were all scruffy and ragged looking, obviously homeless, but their worries had all been set aside for the moment and there was not a sad face around.

Stanley could feel the Narrator close behind him, but not quite touching, uncertainty radiating off of him in turn. Stanley himself wasn’t quite sure what to do, either.

“Hello!” came a voice, startling them. A plump, older woman was walking out of a door near the banquet table, a fresh pot of stew in her hands. She set it down, swapping it out with a nearly-empty one, and waved them over. “Don’t think I’ve seen y’all ‘round these parts yet. Come on, grab a bowl! There’s plenty for everyone.”

Stanley walked forward hesitantly, the Narrator close behind. The woman scooped some tomato soup into a paper bowl and offered it to him. He hesitated, but his growling stomach won out and he reached for it gratefully. His mouth was already watering as the aroma wafted up to him.

She filled another bowl and offered it to the Narrator, who looked at Stanley and raised an eyebrow. Stanley nodded, so the Narrator shrugged and took it as well.

“Thank you, madame,” he said awkwardly, staring down into the soup.

She chuckled. “No worries, hun. Y’all grab some bread, sit down, and enjoy. We’re open ‘till seven.”

They did as they were instructed, finding a table further away from the jovial crowd, and dug in. The soup was delicious, better than anything Stanley could ever remember tasting. He finished his off pretty quickly, going back to the table to serve himself seconds and grabbing another bowl for the Narrator as well.

They ate in companionable silence, and Stanley felt, for the first time in awhile, some semblance of safety settle over him. He sighed happily, feeling the warmth in the food spread to his limbs, making him warm and tingly and sleepy.

He was broken out of his reverie by a commotion from the crowd. Apparently another group of people had entered while they’d been eating and were causing trouble, harassing the homeless that just wanted to eat. Stanley could smell the alcohol on them even from where he sat, and he felt his heart jump into his throat as one of the men shoved someone else onto the floor.

A shout went up from the crowd, and was looking like things were about to get out of control, but the woman from earlier appeared out of nowhere, her voice raised over the commotion.

“Hey, hey!” she yelled, forcing everyone into silence. She held a wooden spoon out threateningly, and those nearest her flinched as if it were a knife. “I won’t have you hoodlums making a fuss in this here gathering, hear?”

One of the inebriated men snorted, staggering forward and opening his mouth to say something. A sharp _CRACK_ sounded, causing a gasp to ripple through the crowd. He yelped, clutching his forehead.

The woman twirled her spoon, which she’d just whacked him with. “Get outta here, young man. You and yer friends. And stay out, or else.”

Muttering amongst themselves and with the ringleader rubbing his head, the group filed out.

The woman shook her head and went back to the kitchen. Chatter gradually returned, building back up to its previous levels, and soon the people had put the incident out of their minds and were laughing along as if nothing had ever happened.

But Stanley’s heart was still racing, and he had to set his spoon down. The leftover soup in his bowl was started to get cold, but his stomach wasn’t feeling it anymore. He crossed his arms on the table and put his head down on them, feeling exhausted.

The Narrator watched him silently, spoon stirring around idly in his own soup. He opened his mouth, but closed it again after a moment, unsure. He sighed.

Someone slid onto the pew next to Stanley. “Now ain’t you two look familiah.”

Stanley jumped in his seat. Sitting next to them was a figure so bundled up in coats and scarves it was hard to tell it was a person at all, except for the beady eyes peeking out from under a toboggan. A bowl of soup was clutched in their mittened hands. They set it down on the table and snorted. “Don’t stop eatin’ on my account.”

Their voice sounded familiar. It took a moment for Stanley to place it, but when he did, he looked to the Narrator excitedly. _It’s the person from the bus!_ he said.

The Narrator narrowed his eyes in thought, before brightening in recognition. “Of course! Why, what a lovely surprise!”

The person’s brown eyes crinkled up into a smile. “Glad I made such an impression, heh. You enjoyin’ Miz Billie’s food? She’s quite the cook, wonderful lady ta boot.”

Stanley nodded. His stomach was comfortably full for the first time in weeks, and even though the incident earlier had soured his mood a bit, the appearance of their random savior from the bus had lifted his spirits. _Narrator, tell them thanks for saving us earlier,_ he signed.

“Stanley says thank you,” the Narrator translated. “As do I. We were in quite the pickle when you showed up, wouldn’t you know. You came to us in a time of great need.”

His flowery words made them laugh. “Aw, shucks, man. No worry. Just doin’ some good, helpin’ out where I can. It’s hard findin’ help nowadays, gotta do what ya can when ya can.”

They finally started to unwrap their many layers, settling them on the pew on their other side. Scarf after scarf, jacket after thin, rumpled jacket, until all that was left was a faded windbreaker that seemed about a hundred years old and a hand-knit scarf that looked like it used to be colorful.

The figure underneath was scrawny, stick-thin limbs and sunken cheeks, but a smile dominated their face. They still had their toboggan on, but now the pair could see their thick, dark hair, neat locs pulled back with a big rubber band.

“Think it’s ‘bout time I introduced mahself,” they said, grinning a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Name’s Dominic, friend’s call me Niki. Or Nick. Don’t care. Said ya called Stanley?”

Stanley took their offered hand carefully, shaking it and smiling back. He nodded.

“And you are?” they asked, cocking their head at the Narrator.

The Narrator cleared his throat and took their hand with a flourish, raising it to his lips. “The Narrator, at your service.” He shot them a grin that had both them and Stanley laughing.

“Now ain’t that a weird name,” Niki said, shaking their head. “‘Narratah’, huh. Whatever floats ya boat, I guess.” Introductions over with, Niki pulled their legs up onto the pew, tucking them underneath themself, and dug into their soup.  

“How’d you two find yaselves out here?” they asked, speaking around mouthfuls of steaming stew. “On the streets, a’course. Never seen ya on tha streets ‘round here, I been ‘round for awhile and I never seen ya faces ‘till today. New in town?”

Stanley and the Narrator looked at each other uncertainly. _We’re definitely new,_ Stanley signed. _But we can’t tell them the truth. You know how well that went down with the others._

Nodding solemnly, the Narrator thought a moment before saying, “We are new, yes. Came from… somewhere outside the city.” He seemed to be struggling to find the right words, before he huffed impatiently. “We’d rather not talk about it.”

 _Smart,_ Stanley thought.

“Heard,” Niki said. “Not many like talkin’ ‘bout their past, ‘specially when it hurts.” They tore off a piece of their roll, dipping it in the broth and swirling it around. They plopped their cheek in their other hand. “Life sucks, man. Life sucks.”

The three of them sat in companionable silence for awhile, letting the chatter surround them. By now, it was getting dark outside, and the crowd was starting to thin out as some of the people left. The woman from earlier, Miss Billie as Niki called her, came out to start putting some of the pots away. She cleaned up around them, sending them cheerful smiles occasionally and stopping to chat with the occasional straggler.

“Nice to see you again, Lil’ Niki,” she said as she made her way towards them. She ruffled Niki’s head, knocking their toboggan askew. “Keepin’ your nose clean?”

“As always, ma’am,” they laughed, straightening their hat.

Miss Billie gathered their empty dishes, adding them to the impressive stack she already carried, effortlessly balanced on her arm. “Well, I hate to kick y’all out, but we close soon. Hang ‘round for a bit longer if you want, though.”

“Thanks.”

Stanley watched her walk off, a lump in his throat. It was getting late, a lot later than he intended to be out, and was no doubt freezing outside by now. They still had a long trek to the nearest bus stop, and who knows how long they’d be waiting until it came? He cursed his lack of forethought, letting time get away from them.

“Hey, Stan-man?” Niki’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You doin’ good?”

The Narrator waved a hand before Stanley could answer. “He’s fine, don’t worry.” But he shot a look to Stanley, as if to ask _Are you really okay?_

Stanley swallowed the lump and nodded, smiling carefully.

Niki watched the two of them a moment before speaking up again. “I call bullshit but whatevah. You got a place ta stay tonight? ‘S gettin’ real cold out there.”

Frowning, Stanley nodded.

“We do, but it’s a bit far away,” the Narrator explained. “In fact, we should probably leave soon.”

“You sure?” Niki started bundling up again, slipping on their jackets and securing various scarves in place. “Hey, I got an idea! Why don’t you come with me? All the shelters ‘round here are full anyhow, but there’s a nice little homeless community nearby. I’m sure someone’s got a spare bedroll, some room in their tent or somethin’ for ya!”

Stanley felt panic creeping up on him at the thought of being around so many people, in such close quarters. There would surely be questions, and they couldn’t afford that. At least with a shelter, there was structure. He shook his head frantically.

“Whoa whoa whoa, calm down mistah,” Niki laughed, holding out their mittened hands in surrender. “Just offerin’.” They stood up, wrapped up as tight as they were at the start, eyes peeking out from under their hat. “If ya change ya mind, we’re over near the bridge at Haversby. Think about it, will ya?”

Stanley shook his head again, but the Narrator spoke up instead. “We will. Thank you for all your help, Dominic. You’ve been a blessing.”

They saluted, eyes crinkled in amusement. “Safe travels, Stan-man. Narratah. See ya ‘round.” Waving goodbye at Miss Billie, they left.

* * *

The pair left not long after, shooed out by Miss Billie in good faith after she told them when she’d open up in the morning. They braced themselves against the wind and cold, which had both intensified while they were warm inside. It bit through their coats, sneaking through zippers and cracks and chilling them to the bone.

Stanley had to blink tears out of his eyes as the wind assaulted him from seemingly every angle. He would go from fighting for every step to stumbling forward, trying not to fall on his face in barely a moment. The Narrator wasn’t faring much better.

They finally made it to the bus stop, noses and fingers numb. The awning gave them some reprieve from the wind, which Stanley was thankful for. He dug out the wrinkled paper he’d written directions and times on, but they had missed the bus he intended them to take. Sighing in frustration, he stuffed it back in his pocket and located the schedule on the wall of the tiny bus stop. Eyes scanned for only a moment, before his heart stopped. He checked the tiny analog clock next to the schedule just to make sure, but it only confirmed what he dreaded.

They had missed the last bus of the night.

“Stanley? What’s wrong?” the Narrator asked, coming to stand next to him, His hands were tucked into his armpits, trying to conserve heat.

 _We missed the bus,_ Stanley said, fingers stiff with cold and making his signs sluggish. _We missed them all._

“Oh…”

Stanley’s mind was racing. They might be able to catch a ride, but as he looked around, he realized that there were no cars on the road. It was dark, so dark outside, and the only lights they had were the streetlamps that dotted the sides of the road.

They would have to walk. That wasn’t so bad, Stanley tried to reason. It would suck, of course it would, and they’d be freezing and exhausted and it would be _very_ late by the time they got back, but they could do it. Maybe. He tried to keep his hopes up.

He raised his hands again to tell the Narrator their new plan, when something landed on his eyelash. He wiped it off, not thinking about it, but another something, cold and wet, landed on his forehead. He frowned, lowering his hands and looking at them.

Snowflakes.

In a split second he had grabbed the Narrator’s wrist and started running. Down the street, in the direction he knew (hoped) was the way to the outskirts of the city, to the church they’d been staying at. It was so far away, but they had to make it.

“Stanley, what-” the Narrator started, but he cut himself off as he tried to keep his balance and keep up with Stanley.

No time to talk. Now that it was snowing, there was only a matter of time before the wind and the cold and everything turned into a blizzard. Even in the few moments it took them to reach the end of the street and turn, the few snowflakes turned into a dozen, turned into more, until Stanley was having to release the Narrator to wipe them out of his eyes.

“What- what is this?” the Narrator cried, swatting at the snow as it assaulted him. The wind made the soft flakes cut like ice into their faces. “Stanley, what’s happening?”

 _Run. Home._ They couldn’t waste anymore time. They had to go. _Now._

Stanley yanked him along again until they were both running, the snowstorm building up around them. Every breath felt sharp, icy wind making Stanley’s throat and lungs and head hurt, but he kept going. He stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk and the Narrator caught him. They kept running.

The freezing cold leeched into their bodies, making their limbs heavy. The running wasn’t helping, and it was no time at all before Stanley was struggling to keep going. They slowed down a little, hoping it would help them keep going for longer, but it hurt so _bad._

Stanley’s mind was a mess of _gotta keep going, gotta get home, so cold, so cold, so cold so cold so cold cold cold-_ Every time the Narrator lagged behind, he would grab his arm and pull him forward, pushing him along until he started jogging again.

But that jog soon became too much as well, and Stanley was forced to slow to a walk. The wind somehow picked up even more, pushing against them and making every step a monumental effort.

They walked like that for hours, Stanley looking up occasionally to make sure they were going the right direction, but for the most part, he kept his face buried in his jacket. The snow had soaked their clothes to the point where it felt like they weren’t keeping the cold out at all, but Stanley knew it was better they had them. They just had to keep going.

The outlines of the buildings around them slowly, oh so slowly, started to look familiar. Stanley altered their course, heading towards the church, but it was still a couple miles away. No sweat on a normal day, but on a night like this, it felt a universe away.

The Narrator had been keeping pace for the most part, near silent the whole journey. He occasionally mumbled something out, unintelligible from behind his scarf and with the wind howling in their ears, but he never tried to get Stanley’s attention, so it must not have mattered. He stumbled occasionally, staggering over the snow that had started to pile up. Stanley righted him, tugging him along every time he lagged behind, but his mind was a mess of focusing on the route, he had more important things to think about, he never paid attention-

That all changed when the Narrator fell to the ground, and didn’t get back up.

Stanley didn’t notice until he was a few paces away. He turned back, confused. _Narrator?_ He grabbed his arm and pulled, but the Narrator was a dead weight. What started out as mild concern turned into full-blown panic. Stanley shook his arm, turning him over and pushing his scarf down until he could see the other man’s face.

His lips were blue, his ageless face slack. He was out cold.

Stanley would have screamed if he could. He looked around, but there was no one around to help. Anyone with an ounce of sense in them was inside, bundled up, nice and warm. They were alone.

 _No, no, no,_ Stanley worried, shaking the Narrator roughly to try and wake him up. He slapped the man across the face, but nothing worked. Even his shivering had stopped. Stanley’s heart was in his throat.

He felt panic closing in on him, shuttering his world down to a pinpoint, but he forced himself to take level breaths. He would be no help if he panicked now, while the both of them were still extremely vulnerable. They would just perish out here, frozen to death, their journey come to a close in the most anticlimactic way possible.

He had to do something.

Stanley tried grabbing the Narrator under the arms and knees, lifting him bridal style, but he only made it a few steps down the sidewalk before he stumbled and almost fell. The Narrator weighed a bit more than him, and while Stanley wasn’t particularly gangly or weak, he wasn’t a weightlifter, and the weeks of near-malnourishment had taken its toll.

He tried looping one of the Narrator’s arms around his shoulders and dragging him that way, but it quickly became apparent that that would only be effective if he could walk even a little bit. Stanley worried he’d accidentally dislocate the Narrator’s shoulder, so that was out of the question as well.

The snow was falling harder, piling up against the sides of buildings and forming a layer on the sidewalks and roads. They were running out of time.

Stanley hated to do this, but with no other option, he knew he had to. He mouthed a quick apology to the Narrator, and grabbed the back of his coat, digging his feet into the ground and heaving. The man slid easily across the frozen ground. It didn’t look comfortable, but they were moving.

It was slow going. Stanley’s teeth were chattering, his fingers stiff, clenched into the fabric of the Narrator’s jacket. His feet slipped occasionally on the sidewalk, but he managed to keep his footing and kept dragging the other man down the sidewalk and towards home.

Finally, _finally_ , Stanley saw the familiar outline of the church. His lips were cracked painfully, blood freezing almost instantly in the wind. He couldn’t feel his feet, or his hands, or most of his face. But they were home.

He looped his arms underneath the Narrator’s, bracing his back against the door, and pushed back, dragging the unconscious man into the building. It wasn’t much warmer in here, but it was dry and free of snow and wind, so it felt like paradise.

Stanley shut the door and dragged the Narrator to the back room, leaving a trail of snow but not caring. He still didn’t know what was wrong with the man, but he knew they both needed to get warm, fast.

He tore off his soaked coat, shucking his clothes to the ground and quickly getting dressed in something warmer. His hair, now slightly warmed up, was dripping water everywhere, but there was nothing he could do about that except push it out of his eyes. He quickly divested the Narrator of his own jacket and scarf, hesitating only a moment before pulling off his own soaked clothes. No time for awkwardness.

As he was undressing him, Stanley took a moment to press his ear to the Narrator’s chest. His heart was still beating, which took a heavy load off Stanley’s shoulders. He’d been worried that he was dragging a corpse down the streets, but now that that fear was assuaged, he could focus on warming the other man up.

He dressed the Narrator up as best he could, pulling a thick sweater over his head and using some spare clothes to sop up the puddle that had formed around them. The Narrator’s lips were still blue, as were his fingers and the tip of his nose, but some color was returning, ever so slowly, to his cheeks.

Biting his lip, Stanley considered what to do next. He knew he needed to get the man warmed up, but the only way he could think to do that was with a fire. They had no fireplace, and starting a fire in the middle of a closed building would only lead to ruin. Either suffocation by smoke, or burning down the building, or even just attracting unwanted attention and having the police breathing down their backs.

Stanley pushed through the panic clogging his brain. He dragged the Narrator over to their shared pile of blankets and arranged them carefully, laying the man down in as comfortable position as he could. He drew the covers over them, taking care to tuck them around the Narrator carefully, letting none of the cold air in, then wrapped his arms around him from behind.

It felt stiff at first, but Stanley forced himself to relax. The Narrator was freezing. He needed to warm up. Stanley was a source of heat. Therefore, he could warm the Narrator up. There was nothing else about it. It was a logical train of thought.

He closed his eyes, resting his chin on top of the other man’s head, and tried to sleep.


	12. A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR HELPS THE MEDICINE GO DOWN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H-HEWWO
> 
> But seriously, sorry about ghosting y'all for so long with no explanation. In case you didn't see my response to @emma's comment, basically: life sucker punched me, then did it again, then made a WrestleMania marathon out of the act and continued to whale on me in various different ways. 
> 
> But then Sethikur made the most wonderful art I've ever seen, and I might have cried in the bathroom before heading to work the morning I saw it. That kind of kicked me partway back into gear, then talking with my therapist kicked me the rest of the way. So thank you so, so much y'all, and go take a gander at Seth's amazing fanart of the first library scene --> https://www.instagram.com/p/Bvcsg0KnqBA/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=wxf0yr5nznpf
> 
> I would have had this chapter and the next out about a week ago, but I still don't have wifi at my new place, so I've had to type this out at a combination of my mom's house, dad's house, the library, and on my tiny phone screen. Sorry :P
> 
> But! I'm back! And things are reaching the halfway point (by the end of the next chapter at least). Still so much to come, and I'm so excited for it :D

Stanley’s sleep was short and dreamless, and he woke up only a few hours later, shivering. The freezing cold had seeped into his bones, leaving him an aching mess. He forced himself to sit up. Every joint protested, but he needed to stretch. He brushed the frost that had formed in his hair overnight out, blinking blearily in the gray light that filtered in through the grimy windows. It was still snowing outside, but the blizzard had calmed down a bit, which was good.

The blizzard.

_The Narrator!_

Stanley panicked, turning to check on him, fearing the worst. But he was still breathing, still asleep, though he was shivering. Considering he hadn’t been when Stanley dragged him in the night prior, he didn’t know whether that was a good thing or bad. He checked the Narrator’s pulse, and, feeling it slower than usual but steady, sighed in partial relief. He brushed one of the Narrator’s curls back behind his ear, dislodging some more frost that melted when it touched his skin.

They needed help. Desperately. If the Narrator was getting sick, then they couldn’t stay in the church any longer. It was getting bad outside, especially considering how far south they were, and Stanley was worried that if they didn’t move soon, things would only get worse.

But everywhere they’d gone to yesterday turned them away, and Stanley didn’t know where else to try. Niki had suggested they stay with them, in the community near… was it Haversby Bridge? That was looking more and more promising, if only for the short term, but even if Stanley knew how to get there, he couldn’t drag the Narrator the whole way. The snow had undoubtedly piled up overnight, making the roads even more of a hazard. And he couldn’t risk leaving the Narrator behind and looking for the place on his own; who knew what would happen while he was gone.

Stanley tucked his knees up to his chin, worrying his lip between his teeth. He was alone, and he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to cry.

Movement caught his attention. He looked over at the Narrator, who was stirring, mumbling incoherently. Stanley leaned over him, touching his shoulder to turn him over. The Narrator’s eyes were still closed and his face was pinched, lips moving soundlessly. He shifted again and shivered violently. Stanley watched as his eyes opened, blinking slowly. They were glassy, and it took far too long for him to focus on Stanley.

He opened his mouth to say something, but it came out hoarse and he ended up coughing. Stanley helped him sit up, rubbing his back through the fit until it calmed enough for him to try again. He looked around, brow creased.

“S-Stanley?” he managed, voice still rough. “What- what are you doing in my office?”

Stanley frowned. _What do you mean?_ Something heavy dropped in his stomach.

It took the Narrator a moment longer than usual for him to parse what Stanley was signing. “I- what-?” He looked around again. “You’re not supposed to be…”

_Narrator, we escaped,_ Stanley said, panic rising. _We escaped the Parable. Don’t you remember?_ It couldn’t be gone, it couldn’t. Not after all they’d gone through.

The Narrator watched him sign frantically. He seemed dizzy, wavering as his eyes unfocused again. “Yes, I… I remember. We…” he trailed off unintelligibly, muttering something about a horse. He then blinked and shook his head, refocusing, and mumbled “Stanley? What’s wrong with me?” He shivered again and drew the blankets up and around his shoulders, frown creasing his brow. “I don’t- I keep forgetting, things, and everything feels wrong.”

Stanley clenched his hands in the blanket underneath him, grounding himself. Taking a steadying breath, he released the blanket and started to sign. _I think you’re sick. It’s a thing that happens to humans sometimes, when they get too cold._ He sent the Narrator an apologetic look. _You passed out last night while we were running back from the city, and I had to drag you the rest of the way. Sorry._

The Narrator watched him sign, silent for a few moments before he responded. “What… what do you mean ‘sick’? I can’t be sick.”

_But you are,_ Stanley said.

“No, no, that can’t be true. I’m not-” He coughed wetly, groaning and dropping his head onto his knees. “Ugh, I don’t like this. I don’t-”

He started coughing again, and Stanley scooted closer to rub his back. The Narrator pushed his hand away, struggling to untangle himself from the blankets wrapped around him. Stanley wasn’t sure what he was trying to do, until he moved his legs and tried standing up.

“No, this won’t- _hack_ \- this won’t do at all,” the Narrator mumbled between coughs, struggling to get to his feet. He wobbled, bracing himself on Stanley’s shoulder, and shook his head to clear it. “Come on, we- we’ve got things to do.”

_Narrator, you need to lay down-_ Stanley started, standing as well, but the Narrator waved him off. That required him to let Stanley go, and when he did, he staggered and almost fell over.

Stanley caught him, looping an arm around his shoulders to keep him steady. He was shivering again, teeth chattering. His breathing was labored, as if he’d been running. It sounded like there was something in his lungs.

“Stanley, let’s-” he started, before his legs gave out from underneath him. Stanley stumbled, just barely keeping them both from falling over, and gently set the Narrator down on the pile of blankets. He was mumbling incoherently again, eyes glassy and unfocused as he glared at the ground.

Stanley had to snap his fingers a few times to get the Narrator’s attention. _Come on, go back to sleep,_ he said. _Being sick means you need more sleep. It’ll help you get better faster._

He knew the other man really was out of it when he nodded, not even bothering to argue. Without a word, the Narrator sank down into the pile of blankets, curling up and passing out almost instantly.

Stanley covered him back up, tucking him in securely, and sat down next to the pile of blankets. He was cold as well, but the Narrator needed the warmth more than him, so Stanley stuck to doubling up on his sweaters and socks.

He watched the Narrator sleeping, nibbling on some beans out of a can to calm his aching stomach. They’d scavenged a little out of a chain store dumpster, managing to find a few cans of expired produce that weren’t slashed open. They didn’t have any silverware, so Stanley had to eat with his fingers, but he was beyond the point of caring.

The Narrator wasn’t going to get better on his own. Stanley didn’t know how strong his immune system was, having not been human until fairly recently, but it couldn’t be good. They needed medicine, and there was only one way for them to get it.

He had to leave the Narrator alone, and venture out on his own.

* * *

The Narrator drifted in and out of consciousness over the next few hours. Every time he came to, he seemed marginally less aware of his surroundings, and it took longer for Stanley to remind him of his condition. The arguments tapered off until he would just nod dimly, sinking back into his unsteady sleep.

Stanley watched him the whole time, cold and exhaustion leeching the energy to do anything from him, knowing he needed to go out and get help, get medicine, get _something,_ but the idea of leaving the Narrator alone in such a state kept him from taking action.

He paced, back and forth down the aisle of the main room, door to the inner sanctum propped open so he could keep an eye on the Narrator. He needed to go. He needed to _go_. **_He needed to go_.** He chewed on his chapped lips, tasting blood. He wiped it off on his sleeve carelessly, then grimaced.

He needed to go.

Stanley counted to ten in his head, then forced himself to move, stalwartly not thinking about what he was doing. He grabbed his warmest jacket, zipping it up tight over his sweater. Thick gloves went on next, and he tucked the legs of his jeans into the winter boots he’d found the other day. Wrapping his scarf around his neck, he hesitated, then grabbed the Narrator’s scarf and did the same, winding it around to cover the bottom half of his face.

Pausing a moment to look at the sleeping Narrator, Stanley turned to the door, squared his shoulders, and left.

* * *

Stanley stumbled and threw out his hands to right himself, trying not to slip and fall on yet another hidden patch of ice. The snow everywhere was making travel difficult, but he needed to go, he needed to find something to help the Narrator before things got somehow worse.

The blizzard had calmed, only a light dusting of snow still falling from the sky, but the effects to the landscape were dramatic. The sidewalks were near impassable, two or more feet of snow having built up and frozen underneath. The roads had, at one point during the night or early morning, been plowed, but it was a haphazard job at best. Any snow that had been pushed to the sides just slid back down, creating a narrow trench in the middle of the pavement that no car could get through. It was dangerous all around, and as Stanley walked, he found he was the only one brave enough to do so.

Despite this, he slogged through the snow and ice, face half-buried in his scarf to try and keep warm. He had to constantly wipe his eyes, snowflakes getting caught in his lashes and making his eyes sting. The minefield of ice around him forced him to go slow, which made his anxiety rack up higher, which made him want to go faster, but every time he slipped and almost wiped out, he was reminded that careful was good. Careful would get him somewhere, careful would get him help, careful would save the Narrator.

Even if it was nerve-wracking.

As he walked down street after street, Stanley peeked into the store windows he passed. Nothing was open. He needed a pharmacy, or even just a gas station that had medicine. Stanley knew next to nothing about curing illnesses, especially something as severe as pneumonia, but he figured any little thing to absolve the Narrator of his symptoms would be a huge help, until they could find something better.

But as he walked and searched, place after place, he found nothing. Everywhere was deserted, the owners and customers alike all holed up in warm homes, out of the freezing cold. It made sense, really, but it hurt no less. Stanley was forced to walk farther to find something, anything that would help.

He wondered how the Narrator was doing. If he’d woken up again, if he remembered where he was. Stanley was worried he would wake up without recent memory again, and try to escape, figure out where he was. There was no telling what the Narrator would do, and in his current state, any venturing to the outside was a death sentence.

He forced those thoughts out of his mind and forged on. No sense in making himself panic even more than he already was.

Finally, mercifully, Stanley saw a small convenience store in the distance with its lights on. They glowed faintly through the haze of snow and frost covering the windows, but they were open. Stanley picked up his pace, shouldering the door open and breathing in the warm air of the inside.

“Hi, welcome to GNP,” the young man at the counter said with a plastic smile. He looked up briefly as Stanley stomped the snow off his boots, trying to rub some feeling back into his hands. Stanley returned his smile, before looking up and around the store.

Following the signs to the pharmacy section was easy; figuring out what medicine he would need wasn’t. Stanley mulled over the labels of a few different things before settling on a cough syrup and some pills that said they would help with headaches. He didn’t even bother to look at the prices. He wouldn’t be able to pay, anyways.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching, Stanley quickly stuffed the two boxes under his jacket, hoping the lumpy material would be enough to hide the shape of them until he got out of the store. He couldn’t risk getting caught, not right now.

He wandered around the store a bit longer, pretending to shop to keep up the ruse. But his nervousness about being away from the Narrator won out in the end, and he rushed towards the exit, trying to look casual.

When the cashier caught his eye, Stanley simply shrugged, hoping it looked like he hadn’t found what he wanted. He waved goodbye, and was out the door before the guy could say anything.

He was on edge the whole walk back, but nobody stopped him. He actually broke into a slippery run once the church was in view, throwing open the door and letting a flurry of snowflakes in after him as he ran down the aisle towards the back room.

The Narrator was still asleep, thankfully. Stanley took off his jacket, grabbing the two boxes before they could fall. Reading the instructions, he took the bottle of syrup out of its box and measured out the correct amount into the little plastic cup that came with it, and shook out a couple pills. Grabbing a spare water bottle from under his pile of clothes, where he kept it so it wouldn’t freeze, Stanley set everything aside and went to wake up the Narrator. It took a few tries, but the man eventually shifted, blinking groggily.

“ _Hng?”_ he grunted, squinting up at Stanley. “What, what’s going on?”

Stanley reached over and snagged the Narrator’s glasses from the nearby table, handing them over. He put them on, trying to sit up, but a hand on his chest stopped him.

_Narrator, I’m going to need you to drink this,_ Stanley said, holding up the tiny cup of bright blue syrup.

The Narrator raised an eyebrow, but the effect was lost as he opened his mouth to object and instead broke into a coughing fit.

“What is it?” he managed after the fit subsided, taking it when Stanley offered it again.

_Medicine. It’ll help you get better._

He frowned at the plastic cup, but shook his head and went to sip at it anyways. Stanley stopped him, covering the top with his hand before it could reach the Narrator’s lips.

_You’ll… want to down it in one gulp,_ Stanley said.

“Why?”

_Just trust me._

The Narrator sighed, but did as instructed. He tipped his head back, swallowing the medicine and immediately choking, coughing as the awful taste coated his tongue.

“What- Stanley, are you trying to _poison_ me?!” he shouted, throwing the cup away and swearing, sounding like he was trying to cough up a lung.

Stanley smiled apologetically, offering him the water bottle and getting up to retrieve the plastic cup from across the room. He sat back down on the blankets and watched as the Narrator downed half the bottle, trying to wash away the awful taste.

_It’s not poison,_ Stanley explained. _It’s medicine. I know it tastes bad, but we can’t do anything about that._

The Narrator swished some water around in his mouth, making an awful face. He swallowed, and said, “Ugh, well at least I don’t have to do _that_ again.” Capping the bottle again, he added “And I’ll be glad to, to finally be rid of this damned illness. Guh, my mind feels like it’s full of… awful.” He frowned at the lack of elegance to his words.

Stanley felt bad about raining on his parade, but it needed to be done. _Unfortunately, you won’t get better just like that,_ he said, snapping his fingers to prove his point. _You’ll have to take it again, probably a lot, and rest. But it’ll help a lot._

The Narrator groaned, and sank back down into the covers. “This is _awful_.”

Stanley usually hated how whiny the Narrator could be about how the real world was, but right now, he was glad for it. A day of rest was already helping him a lot; if the Narrator felt good enough to complain, it meant he was getting better. Things might not be so dire as they seemed.

Before he could drift back off again, Stanley made him swallow down two of the pills with the rest of the water bottle, which went better than the cough syrup had. He had to convince the Narrator that he wasn’t supposed to chew the tablets, as that would taste worse than the syrup, but that did the trick. He took them without complaint, and passed out again.

Stanley sighed and leaned back against the wall. He was so, so tired, but they needed food. Hopefully the medicine would keep the Narrator knocked out for a few hours so he could go and find something for them to eat, and then he could wake him up so he could take his second dose.

Things would get better, he was sure of it. He just needed to push through, for the both of them.

They could do this.


	13. in which the author abuses the use of both run on sentences and also sentence fragments, while somehow still managing to make a coherent chapter. or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S VERY IMPORTANT NOTE:
> 
> GO BACK AND RE-READ THE LAST CHAPTER!!! Until this was posted, it was just an author's note explaining that I was to be taking a leave of absence! But it is now a real chapter! This is the chapter after that! This is not the new chapter, this is the NEW new chapter! GO READ THE LAST ONE FIRST!!!
> 
> \---
> 
> But now that that's out of the way, this is it! This chapter marks the end of part two. Next up is part three, which I am seriously looking forward to, as it will be introducing a whole host of OC's I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about and fleshing out for this story. Some of them are introduced in this chapter, but we're not going to meet them in depth until the next chapter. 
> 
> Onwards! No telling when I'll see y'all again, but hopefully it won't be nearly as long between chapters as it was last time aksdjfhhaksdf

For a couple days, things looked like they were getting better. The Narrator seemed marginally more aware of his surroundings, holding short conversations when he was awake and sleeping for longer periods of time between doses of medicine. Stanley managed to get out and find food a couple times, but without the Narrator's help, he wasn't quite as successful. He rationed what they had, feeling his stomach protest against the lack of food, but giving what he could to the Narrator when he was awake. The Narrator had to keep his strength up to fight off the sickness. Stanley could afford to go hungry until things settled.

But a few days into the fragile routine they'd built, everything fell apart.

The Narrator's coughing fits came back with a vengeance. Not a moment would pass when he was awake that he wasn't choking, coughing up slimy phlegm and struggling to breathe between fits. His already pale skin took on an unhealthy gray pallor. Every blanket they had was already piled on him, but now it never seemed enough, and he would shiver through the night in bouts of fitful sleep.

It took everything Stanley had not to break down at the horrible turn things had taken. The medicine stopped working, and it was such a struggle to get the man to even take it, coughing and sputtering at the nasty cough syrup when he was even aware enough to swallow it. They ran out of water and Stanley couldn't go out to get any more, so he tried to get the Narrator to dry swallow the pills. It was hard, and almost more trouble than it was worth with the lack of results.

Stanley knew they were running out of time when the Narrator stopped waking up.

* * *

It was dark and the Narrator felt like he was choking. Claws slashed his throat, dragging down and slicing him open until he felt like he was drowning in something. Something hot, something wet. Was this blood? Was he dying?

He didn't want to die.

Hands grabbed at him and pulled, pulling him down and down and yet he swam, kicking and clawing and flailing like his life depended on it because it did, this was the end and if he couldn't surface then he wouldn't-

He was in the office, but not his office. This was Stanley's office, at least he thought so because he'd seen it so many times, so many hundreds of thousands of countless times but never from where he stood at that moment. It was unnerving, but more unnerving was the feeling that he was being watched by something that felt malevolent, felt unimpressed and angry and playful but not an innocent playful, no, the kind of playful reserved for bitter children and magnifying glasses and ants that don’t see it coming. The Narrator felt like an ant, he felt watched, he felt the heat of the gaze and the magnifying glass on his back burning hotter and hotter and he opened his mouth to scream-

He was choking, thrashing and opening his eyes, waking up. But was he awake? He saw Stanley, kind Stanley, leaning over him and worried and signing something but the Narrator couldn’t understand him, couldn’t read his hands or his face and he tried to speak but suddenly there was liquid fire coating his throat, sputtering out between his lips and why was Stanley doing this? He was forcing the poison down his throat, covering his mouth to keep it in but it hurt, _Stanley it hurts_ thinks the Narrator but he swallows the words and can’t swallow the fire and he’s falling, falling back into the black.

* * *

Stanley didn’t know how many days had passed.

Food had run out. So had medicine. A fog of desperation had settled over his mind, numbing him deeper than the bone. He’d taken to curling around the Narrator as best he could, holding him tight through his fits, trying to keep him warm. Stanley couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t feel his toes, his lips, the tips of his ears. Everything was so cold, but some part of his mind knew that the Narrator needed warmth. They both did. It was the only thing he knew.

Time passed. He couldn’t say how much.

He woke up, or maybe he’d been awake. Stanley became aware of himself. Became aware of how still the world was.

No snow fell outside.

No sounds of cars, or pedestrians.

The Narrator was silent and still.

Where panic would have once spiked through Stanley’s heart, spurring him into action, there was nothing. He sat up slowly, even the ache of laying on the floor numbed to nothing. He blinked. He looked down.

The Narrator’s face was slack. He was no longer shivering. To an outside observer, it looked like he was simply sleeping peacefully. Or something else. Something worse. He might have been-

 _No._ Even through the vacancy leaving him hollow, Stanley’s mind averted that course of thought.

Instead, he watched as his hand moved, as though pulled by strings not under his control. It settled against the Narrator’s neck, sliding along his skin until his fingers pressed under his jaw.

Stanley waited patiently, head silent.

He felt a faint beat.

He stood. The blankets fell around him, pooling around his socked feet.

He stumbled forward, head swimming. The air felt like jelly. Everything was quiet. Slow.

He pulled on a jacket. He didn’t know whose it was. It was wet.

He pulled on some boots. They were his. They were not wet.

He stepped forward. He blinked. He was outside. He forgot his scarf. And his gloves.

He couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t feel much of anything.

He kept walking.

He blinked again. He was walking down a street, familiar. He was far from the church. There was no one around him. He kept walking.

He turned. Where was he?

He took a step forward. He was on his knees. His jeans were soaked where the snow touched them.

Someone said something to him. He shook his head. What?

He blinked. The buildings around him were taller. People walked around him. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know where he was going.

He kept walking.

* * *

_“Dios mio, Miguel, ¿él está bien?”_

_“No lo sé. Él estaba aquí cuando llegué.”_

_“Mateo, llama a una ambulancia.”_

_“Sí, sí- ¡mierda! Dejé mi teléfono en mi casa, no puedo.”_

_“¿Hay alguien aquí útil?”_

_“Que te den- ¡ay! ¡Mira, mira! ¡Él está despertando!”_

Stanley groaned. Several pairs of unfamiliar hands grabbed him, helping him sit up. He let them and rubbed his temple, blinking hard to clear away the fuzziness at the edge of his vision. The ground beneath him was cold and hard. He focused on that to help ground himself until the wave of dizziness passed.

“Hey _chamaco,_ you feeling okay?” There was a hand on his shoulder, large and warm and strong. Stanley looked up.

He was in a ditch. Surrounding him was a half dozen construction workers, some crouched in front of him. They were dirty, caked in mud and plaster, work boots crusted in brown snow.

Stanley’s head hurt.

The person holding his shoulder shifted, and his face swam into view. Stanley could see a mustache, and plastic safety goggles, but everything else was lost as his world tilted and danced around him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” the man said as Stanley pitched forward. _“Dios,_ don’t pass out on me now. You took a nasty fall there _hijo_ , don’t want you getting hurt any worse.”

Stanley shook his head and- ow, big mistake. He winced, curling in on himself as pain lanced through his head. He felt bile raise in the back of his throat, but nothing came with it. He had to, had to do something. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t remember. Everything hurt too much, especially his head and his _stomach._

Someone said something else, but none of it registered. Stanley took deep, measured breaths, trying to calm the panic threatening to overtake him. He kept his eyes closed as the roaring in his ears subsided, waiting it out until he could think straight.

The workers were discussing something, speaking too quickly for Stanley to parse in a language he didn’t understand anyways. The man with the mustache - Stanley could see now that he looked older, only a few streaks of his original dark hair left among the gray - still had his hand on Stanley’s shoulder, but he was watching the conversation with a worried look on his face. He turned back when he felt Stanley look up.

“Hey, back in the land of the living,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “You okay? Almost lost you there again for a moment.”

Stanley swallowed, his throat dry, and nodded slowly. His headache throbbed, but didn’t spike again, so he considered that a step up.

The others had stopped talking when the older man spoke up, watching the two of them intently. Now, one of them piped up in English. “You get lost or something? We didn’t see you fall, but it must’ve been pretty hard.”

“You were out for a good bit there before we found you.” Stanley didn’t see who spoke that time. He looked down.

He didn’t remember falling. He remembered walking. Walking, and walking, and walking, but he couldn’t remember why. Where was he going? He knew he needed to get something, but what? He was missing something, something important. But no matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t place his finger on-

It came rushing back to him. _The Narrator!_

If he could have, he would’ve shot to his feet. Instead, Stanley shot a panicked look at the man with the mustache.

The man realized something was up. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is everything okay?”

Stanley raised his hands to sign, but stopped, clenching his fists. They wouldn’t understand him. He needed to communicate the situation, but nobody understood him and the only person who could translate for him was currently dead or dying in an abandoned church in who knows what part of town. His nails dug into the palms of his hands as frustrated tears pricked at his eyes. Why was he so _useless?_

One of the other workers stepped forward. “Hey _señor,_ you can’t talk, can you?”

Biting his lip until he tasted blood, Stanley shook his head. Instantly, the group started chattering again.

“Go get Nicolás!”

“He speaks _seños,_ he can help!”

“ _Nicolás!”_

 _“Cabrón,_ he can’t hear you!”

“ _Mierda, todos ustedes son tan jodidamente estúpidos._ ”

Stanley looked around as a couple of the men trudged up out of the ditch, slipping on the muddy sides in their haste. He wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, but that wasn’t much different from usual.

The man with the mustache shook his head almost fondly, then looked back at Stanley. “Name’s Ignacio. Wish we could’ve met in better circumstances, kid.” He clapped Stanley’s shoulder lightly, not enough to jostle him, and chuckled. “Hang in there. Nicolás is coming.”

Stanley didn’t get a chance to wonder who that was. There was a barking laugh from somewhere above, then the group of men returned, plus one extra. They slid down into the ditch, pushing and shoving the newcomer in a way that seemed familiar and playful.

This new guy, Nicolás if Stanley were to guess, looked younger than the others, or maybe it was the way he held himself. Where most of them looked anywhere from early thirties to mid forties, he seemed spry with youth. He laughed, eyes bright as he caught himself at the bottom of the ditch smoothly, and spoke in a voice that seemed too loud for his twiggy frame.

“Mateo, _primo mio,_ you know I gotta get these bricks laid!” he said, gesticulating widely and in an manner most would consider sporadic. He eyed Stanley, still sitting in the dirt and mostly surrounded by the other men.

Stanley, for his part, was watching his hands move, eyes wide with shock. Because while he spoke one thing, his hands were flying, signing something completely different.

_If I don’t get this fucking foundation done before the snow starts again, the foreman will kill me. This better be worth it._

Stanley felt a smile growing on his face.

Nicolás had started to talk to the others again, but he stopped when Stanley started waving to get his attention.

 _You talk like me!_ he signed quickly, excitement at finally finding someone who understood him bubbling under his skin. _You understand what I’m saying!_

Quirking the corner of his lips, Nicolás said “Yeah, it’s just sign language, _guey._ ” While his mouth moved, though, his hands spoke as well. _No one ever give you the time of day?_

Stanley ducked his head. _Not usually. The Narrator understands me, but he’s…_

Nicolás hummed. “Know that feeling.” _What’s wrong? Who’s that fool?_

Snapping out of the happy haze brought on by finally being able to carry on a conversation without a translator, Stanley remembered the reason for his urgency. He sat up straighter.

 _My name is Stanley,_ he started. _I have a… friend, and he’s in danger. He’s really sick, and we both need help._

Nicolás seemed to feel the change in mood, and his gap-toothed grin faded somewhat. “Sick, you say?” _Why not take him to a hospital?_

Stanley bit his lip. _Not an option._  

“Why not?” _Money tight?_

_...sort of._

Something in Stanley’s expression, the way he avoided direct eye contact with a flush of shame heating his cheeks, said more than enough. Nicolás took in his ratty clothes, the layers of grime on his skin wet paper towels couldn’t wash off. He read Stanley’s story in the lines on his face that didn’t used to be there, and smiled softly. _You don’t have somewhere to stay?_

Stanley shook his head.

Nicolás was silent a long moment. He glanced around at his coworkers, who’d been watching the exchange, only getting part of the story but knowing the meaning in the way they held themselves. Nicolás looked at them, and more was communicated in the look that passed among them then words could express.

He turned back to Stanley. “Come on, _amigo._ We’ll help you.”

Stanley sagged with relief.

Instantly, the men started chattering amongst themselves, planning. They spoke quickly, Nicolás at the head of operations, pointing and directing, a determined glint in his eye. His friends went along, some climbing their way out of the ditch to do what they were told, whatever it was. Others voiced dissent, from the tones of their voices, but Nicolás cut them off with a swipe of his hand and continued, explaining in words that Stanley didn't understand, but had them nodding, understanding.

Ignacio, whom Stanley had nearly forgotten was still crouching beside him, touched Stanley’s shoulder to get his attention. “He’s organizing cover for us while we go to get your friend,” he explained. “We can’t just drive off; technically, we’re still at work. But if some of us stay behind to keep working and hide the fact that a few of us are missing, we should have enough time to sneak over to wherever your friend is and get him.”

Stanley nodded, understanding.

 _“¡Vamos, vamos, vamos!”_ Nicolás shouted, clapping his hands. Everyone dispersed, climbing out of the ditch in a hurry, an air of anticipation about them. Nicolás himself turned to the two of them, a manic grin on his face. “Come on, _Tío_ Ignacio, let’s get Stanley here up and out. Miguel’s grabbing his truck and calling up Rubi; I would but-”

“Yeah, yeah, the whole ‘hearing’ thing,” Ignacio interrupted with a chuckle.

Nicolás barked out a laugh. “Ana’s going to be interesting to convince, but we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

There was a distant honk of a car horn, and Ignacio stood, groaning. He helped Stanley to his feet.

A wave of dizziness overtook him as soon as he made it vertical. Stanley clutched onto Ignacio’s arm, holding onto consciousness with a white-knuckled grip as blood roared in his ears. He took quick, short breaths to help steady himself, but things were fading, fast. He pitched forward, right into Nicolás.

“Stanley?” he asked, eyebrows raised. He clasped Stanley's shoulders, a note of concern in his voice. “ _Mierda, chamaco,_ stay with us.”

But Stanley’s vision was shuttering, flickering as hunger and the cold and the stress of the past few weeks finally caught up with him. He heard someone asking him something, and managed to catch the tail end of a question about directions. He signed what he hoped was the name of the street the church was on.

Then the world dissolved like a flurry of snow.

* * *

_We’re coming, Narrator._

_Everything is going to be okay._

_Hold on._

_Hold on for me._

 


End file.
